


Destiel Coffee Shop AU

by Mr_Snuffleupagus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Snuffleupagus/pseuds/Mr_Snuffleupagus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel, overworked and underslept, wakes up with a desperate need for coffee and an even more desperate sense of social ineptitude. Nevertheless, the pleasant green-eyed barista doesn't seem to mind his idiosyncrasies and might even be enjoying listening to him fumble over social protocols.</p><p>A humorous thought pinches at the man’s mind:<br/>Maybe he should tell the exhausted college student… No, it’s funnier to leave him oblivious…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What’s the Social Protocol?

**Author's Note:**

> In advance, this is my first time writing fic... ever.  
> I've been reading it for a while and I decided I'd see if I could learn how to do this whole "writing" thing. I promised myself I'd write at least 10 chapters in the hope that by the end of the experience I'd be that much more literate.
> 
> Critiques/Recommendations on how I can be less shit are welcomed, invited, and begged for.
> 
> But please... Be nice
> 
> *quivers behind my keyboard, hoping that uploading this wasn't the dumbest thing I've all year*

Light. Bright light. Orange? Brown. Brown walls? Bricks. Table. Book. Textbook. A smell. Coffee. A blur. 

The blur formed into a shape. The shape was familiar.

A person. _Shit_.

“Haha, sorry. I’d meant to put that down a lot more quietly.” The faceless blur was a man.

Castiel had been woken by the sound of his triple shot caffeinated death-in-a-cup, hitting the table. He’d been torn from a brief dream of about Titian’s _Venus and Adonis_. It was a good dream. Castiel was there watching the scene unfold. Except Adonis wasn’t leaving Venus for the hunt. He was coming towards Castiel; needless to say, less clothes were worn. Tearing himself away from the memory of what seemed only minutes away from a renaissance art sex dream, Castiel took in the situation. He’d fallen asleep on his textbook while studying, again. Sitting upright he intended on thanking the barista, but stopped dead.

He was gorgeous. Castiel considered: he was certainly an apt replacement for his Adonis. Still finding his bearings, Castiel took a moment to appreciate the little things: the legitimate concern in the green eyes that were in front of him (a concern that his own frenzied awakening had caused), the way that the apron around his waist had caused his shirt to ride up revealing a hint of hip bone, the way the pink of this strangers lips almost matched the subtle shade that ringed his eyes, a sure sign of exhaustion substituted with caffeine. In that moment, everything about the man seemed to be placed just so, hinting at a hidden narrative. Titian would have had a field day.

Castiel was so engrossed by the man in front of him that he failed to notice the post-it note annotation that had been transferred from his textbook to his forehead. He jumped at a flutter of yellow in front of his eyes. In shock, Castiel’s knees hit the table. A sharp gasp of pain. The thump of a textbook falling, landing on his foot.  In one fluid motion, the barista's hands shot out, grabbing the precariously tipping coffee cup, his reflexes saving an English-to-Greek dictionary as Castiel's papers tumbled around them.

The stranger helped Castiel gather the notes which had flown in multiple directions. Castiel thanked him profusely, promising he wasn’t always this much of a mess

The barista’s features seemed to recede towards his nose for a moment before his face and torso were consumed by a warm, rumbling laugh. His eyes wandered from Castiel’s face towards the open textbook (which had, until recently functioned as a pillow). Castiel, missing whatever nuance had been quite _that_ funny, internally shrugged it off as he balled the little yellow note up without looking at it and crammed it into his jeans. Anyhow, he was far too fascinated by the faint hint of freckles which bounced on the man’s nose and around his eyes as he shook.

“So I take it, you’re an art history major...” His eyes darting to the named note book, “Cas-teel?”

“Cas-ti-el,” he amended “double majoring art history and classics, and apparently every known dead language.” Castiel laughed a practiced laugh as he gestured to the mess of four gargantuan textbooks splayed from their once neat pile on the floor. He knew what was coming next.

“How’ve those books not crushed you yet?”

“Well I go to the gym a lot, so they’re nothing.” _Daring_.  A little proud of his use of sarcasm, Castiel’s smile grew more comfortable on his face.

“Oh yeah, where do you go? I’m over on Kingston.”

Castiel would probably have been more disappointed that his newest social gambit had been missed if he wasn’t so entranced by his Greek Adonis’s might arms, imprisoned but rebellious beneath the fabric of their black uniform T-shirt. _Wow_. Castiel noted to himself; he was far too easily distracted when this tired.

“…so I'm gonna take your silence as meaning not David’s either…” he laughed, oblivious to how off topic Castiel’s mind had drifted. _Oh yes. Gyms_. Castiel looked down at the sinews under his woollen jumper and then back at his Adonis’. Realising his sarcasm was going to need more work before it could feature in his social repertoire again, he blankly back pedalled and desperately tried to think of something clever to say.

Castiel fumbled at his pocket, finally pulling out the crumpled ball of yellow. He knew his hands often needed something to do when he was nervous, so they began unravelling the note and reforming it into a sphere. All the while Castiel searched the man’s eyes for a clever retort, desperately trying to not actually notice the depths of green and flecks of amber. _Eureka!_

“I don’t know if I’m ready to share that vital information with you yet, considering I barely know you. I don’t even know your name yet.” _Yes, turn the conversation back on him_. Castiel said a silent prayer, which consisted mainly of profanities, begging that last sentence to sound friendly and playful.

“Ah, you got me there, I’m Dean.” (Success!)

Dean.  Castiel thought about it. Good. It suited him. Dean. Deaaan. Dean. Unravelling and reforming the name in his mind. Deeeaaan.

“So Castiel, what brings here at this hour?” Dean’s eyes gesturing to the clock on the wall. 3am. _WHAT?!_ Castiel suddenly remembered. He’d been pulling an all-nighter last night to finish an essay which had started as a historical review of Planudes and ended up a full critique of Polemic theology. Tonight he was doing battle against sexual imagery, baroque saints and depictions of angels.

“It appears I’m trying to reconcile art, religion, philosophy and science in 5,000 words. You?” He immediately regretted that last bit and flushed pink. Nevertheless Dean beamed and let out a pleasant chuckle.

“Well, I work here…” He slid Castiel’s coffee towards him “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you should probably drink this,” The full body laugh which crinkled first his nose and then his eyes consumed Dean’s face again. Castiel decided it was good laugh: sincere, warming, yet strong and booming.

Dean sat in the seat next to Castiel, which, noting the entirely empty café, was not nearly as scandalous as Castiel first had presumed. They spoke for some time. Castiel’s essay, the weather, films, and eventually themselves. Dean had intended on going to college, but after the death of his father, took up numerous jobs to help pay for his little brother’s way through school. By the sounds of it, he was quite smart and off in a private high school somewhere a few states over, in his senior year. Dean had never really had any pets, and honestly wasn’t a big fan of dogs. Dean also had a past girlfriend, but things hadn’t worked out. Castiel took note of this, and figured, at least maybe, he could gain a friend from this social exchange, if not a Renaissance Adonis. Upon being asked about his past love life, Castiel tipped a weak grin and shook his head. No girlfriends there.

Castiel, liking his privacy, opted not to talk about his family and instead his studies again. Dean seemed not to mind. Despite understanding little, he sat in fascination as Castiel explained the influence of the Council of Trent on later Baroque style. Castiel contemplated how much of lecture was being lost on Dean, but the barista seemed to be enjoying the lesson, so Castiel continued. Maybe it was the sense of camaraderie, being awake at such an unholy hour, but the two got along surprisingly well despite their differences in everything from gym attendance to musical tastes.

The two continued onto Dean’s others jobs: a mechanic in a small shop on the border of town during the day, and a bartender at his family friend’s tavern when he wasn’t rostered at the café for the night shift.

“Have you ever considered actually sleeping?” Castiel quipped.

“Considering I work in a place that specialises in caffeinated beverages, I suppose it never crossed my mind.” Dean retorted, a tired grin creeping across his face. “Though, I suppose the last three days have been a bit of mess. Then again, my studious friend, can you really say much?” Dean eyed the dark bags which were a nearly permanent feature of Castiel’s face and extended a finger out to touch one. His touch electrified Castiel’s skin, entirely unprepared for physical contact. All three caffeine shots suddenly seemed to seep into Castiel’s system, most of which ran to his cheeks. Dean was obviously growing increasingly tired and evidently had not been as fazed by the connection and apparently hadn’t noticed the rush of pink to Castiel’s face.

_What time was it anyway?_ Castiel’s eyes, charged and still quite shaken, darted to the clock. Five. After triple checking, it dawned on him that Castiel had been speaking to this attractive stranger for two whole hours. It was unlikely he was showing up to lectures today, the six hours of sleep he had promised himself earlier in the night now reduced to one if he ran home now.

“You know, I’ve been contemplating whether I should tell you. Umm, you’ve got a little…” Dean’s finger circling the growing furrow in his own (flawless) brow, as he took a deep yawn.

“I don’t understand.”

 “… A smudge on your… the, uhh, post-it note.” Castiel’s eyes flitted to the scrunched up ball in his hands and then back at Dean, squinting in confusion. Dean let out a tired chuckle. “I’ve got it.”

Castiel’s eyes followed the barista’s hand as he removed it from the textbook he’d been mindlessly flipping through, and brought his thumb to rest upon his plump pout. Castiel gazed as Dean slowly drew his lower lip down with his thumb to lick the pad of this thumb and reveal a gleam of white which stood in stark contrast to the dark blond, stubbly begginings of–shitfuckshitshitabortabort– Castiel’s cocked head bolted upright and his squint exploded into a look of pure fear as he realised he was staring, slightly too intensely at Dean’s mouth and from the sudden look of realisation and possibly shock on Dean’s face, it was probably quite obvious. _Damn it. Damn it all to hell, look casual, LOOK CASUAL, Oh look a textbook, that’s nice, Flemish Baroque painting. Yep. Fascinating_. Castiel forgetting to breathe as he swore to never look up from page 243 ever again.

For what felt, to Castiel, like an eternity, both sat in silence contemplating what course of action to take next. Surely, Dean would say something first, especially seeing as he hadn’t been the one to just embarrass himself out of his wits. No? Apparently not, as the silence drew on. Castiel, still trying not to acknowledge the world’s existence, turned the page to reveal Brouwer’s _The Bitter Potion_. He could not stifle a quiet scoff at the nearly five hundred year old peasant who seemed equally repulsed by the situation. Dean had apparently woken from his introspective hibernation.        

“Dude —uhh— bathroom’s over there” Dean pointed across the room; Castiel’s eyes followed ensuring they didn’t fixate on the now visible, glistening underside of the thumb, the moistening of which had previously been his undoing.

Castiel let out a broken word of thanks and rapidly scuttled off towards the lavatory. Not entirely sure of what was going on, not entirely bothered that he didn’t understand why Dean had offered directions; Castiel was simply pleased at the excuse to extract himself from the awkwardness he had created.

. . .

Clutching the sink, Castiel tried to breathe. Turned on the tap; he needed the cool of running water on his face and neck. He needed to calm and recollect his thoughts. No, what he needed to do was wake the hell up: Getting caught ogling a straight barista he’d just met. _Really, Castiel… Really?_ Splashing water on his face he pondered what would Meg say.

_Cassie, my blessed child. I can see we have some work to do here._

Dear god, always _“We have some work to do,_ ”. There was a girl who would not rest until she’d gotten her roommate laid. Half a smile sneaked across Castiel’s face. If he ever survived this ordeal he may have to tell her. He certainly wouldn’t live it down anytime soon, but she could definitely use the laugh as of recently.

Eventually, Castiel begun to feel like himself again. He was alone. He was safe. As long as he stayed in this five by ten foot heaven everything was manageable.  Allowing the tension gripping his shoulders to flow down the sink hole, Castiel let out a silent huff; he could deal with this. It wasn’t _that_ awkward. He’d think of something. His gaze moved up the wall to the mirror in front of him, gaze meeting those two sea-blue eyes, bloodshot to hell and back… And that’s when he saw it.

Horror struck, every muscle in his person tensing. Back arched, chest winded, and possibly growing lightheaded, Castiel’s hands clawed at sides of the basin to balance himself.

“ **SEX ME** ”

The unmistakable inverse printed across his forehead, now ink bleeding down his face. For the past few minutes… The whole time he’d been talking to Dean… Every time Dean had looked up at… The post-it note? THE POST-IT NOTE! Castiel could feel his cheeks ignite. He could barely believe the situation. Sex me. Castiel could not believe that for the past two hours his forehead had been demanded something (that despite probably being an entirely enjoyable experience was) so outrageous.

Castiel scrambled to bring the perpetrator out of his pocket and unfolded the crumpled yellow nightmare.

**_Sex meant as an antithesis: post poc_ **

Castiel looked down at the scrawl of past caffeinated-urgency and unfamiliar shorthand.

Having no greater response, Castiel let out a cathartic groan. “ _Sex meant as an antithesis: post poc”_ Maybe he’d make sense of “post poc” when he got home and discovered the context of the annotation, assuming he didn’t throw himself off something tall beforehand or, Castiel mused, assuming he ever left the bathroom.

What now? What one earth does one do when parts of their body start asking for sex from good looking strangers named Dean? What’s the social protocol? Castiel drew a blank.

Amongst the mixture of sudden understanding of many of Dean’s jokes throughout the night, what could only be described as utter mortification and unspeakable embarrassment, Castiel noticed an unexpected sense of relief: Dean hadn’t caught him staring longingly at his mouth. Maybe Dean wasn’t entirely aware of how entranced Castiel had been by _every_ element of his physicality. Maybe he might even be able to see him again.

Maybe.

 

* * *

Titian’s Venus and Adonis: [link](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Venus_and_Adonis_by_Titian.jpg)  
Brouwer’s The Bitter Potion: [link](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Adriaen_Brouwer_004.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, we got through a chapter of my writing fairing intact. Yay for us. That wasn't too painful, right? 
> 
> Feel free to (by which i mean PLEASE) leave some form of critique or recommended improvement for future writings. I've already written up to chapter 4, but am now going through trying to un-crappy them.
> 
> I've tried for an alternating POV focus thing between chapters. So next will be a Dean one.
> 
> Oh, and Charlie Bradbury next chapter.
> 
> and, um... future smut to come (just sayin')


	2. #1 Sexiest Hobo Throughout the Realm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean was never a fan of waking up anywhere that wasn’t his entanglement of black should-probably-be-washed-soon sheets, under the Busty Asian Beauties poster he’d gotten as joke from the guys at the Auto Shop. There were a few pleasant exceptions, Dean pondered, a lewd smile lingering on face... 
> 
> But the café was not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you left a comment helping me ensure this chapter was written better than the last:  
> *tumble weed*  
> *tumble weed*  
> *tumblr weed* (yes, that was a pun)
> 
> *sigh*  
> Nevertheless, we continue...  
> No, I'm still not yet magically a better writer. Oh well, I suppose it'll take time.
> 
> Once again:  
> Critiques/Recommendations on how I can be less shit are welcomed, invited, and begged for.

Castiel strode out of the bathroom with the apparent confidence of one who wished the ground would just consume them. _Be cool. Well, act cool. Just try be anyone but yourself and everything will be fine._

Uncertain as to whether he found it disappointing or the relief he had prayed for, Castiel found Dean asleep, bent over on the table.

Dean was positioned in the exact same position Castiel had been two hours prior. Head on textbook. One hand reaching across the table, the other on his muscular forearm. God, they were amazing arms. Castiel contemplated how tight Dean’s embrace would be with arms like those.

Shaking the thought from his head, he gazed down upon the man’s day old stubble and traced up and down that jaw in his mind.

Castiel stifled a gloomy laugh: Dean had found his way back to the Italian renaissance and had his face currently resting on Giorgione’s _Sleeping Venus_. He supposed his Adonis would have to have left him eventually and gone back to his Venus.

He contemplated leaving a note or something but he decided the he could claim an excuse to see the friendly man-god again tomorrow night. Should he leave a blanket over him? Was that _too_ friendly? Castiel gathered his things and quietly left the sleeping deity to drool on a page which wasn’t really that interesting anyway. With that, he quietly left into the night.

~ ~ ~

Dean awoke with a pain in his neck and the unsatisfying taste of stale muffin in his mouth, trying to remember why he was waking up in the café. Upright and reaching to run his hands through his mess of brown hair, which still held the form of a surprisingly comfortable textbook, he encountered something. Paper? His hands were still clumsy and his eyes still adjusting; Dean examined the cone of paper which had been nestled on his sleeping head. _DUNCE_ , neatly printed, running vertically down, framed by two stripes of the masking tape from the boxes out back.

“Charlie.” Dean mumbled to himself, before planting his head back on the comfy tome. Dean pretended he couldn’t hear the hummed rendition of ‘ _Walking on Sunshine’_ approaching far too rapidly from behind. Dean pretended he was still asleep. Dean had never been good at pretending.

“Good morning sunshine. The world says hello.” Dean contemplated how if he ever obtained some form of supernatural power, morning people would be the first to be smote. Charlie Bradbury was indeed a morning person. Despite Dean’s detestation of anyone capable of civil social presence before 10am he resisted the urge to throw last night’s (now stone-cold) cup of coffee all over her and tell her to fuck off.

 “A cup of Aqua vitae, for you Mr Winchester?” Down with a thud went a plate of warm banana loaf and a latte.

Dean looked up at the nuisance before him. A sea of loose red curls fell over both shoulders on her unnecessarily bright blue blazer into and into the magenta hood which peaked out from underneath. “Our mighty champion wakes,” Charlie’s face extending a grin from each ear as she tipped her head towards the paper pendant which lay round Dean’s neck.

“Son of a…” Dean exhaled, yanking off the token and reading it. _#1 sexiest hobo throughout the realm_. “… urggh,” his head thumped down on the back his sprawled arms, rattling the cup and saucer.

“So I take it you had a raging night.” Charlie gestured to the room of empty chairs staggered in general direction of the nearest table.

If Dean had cared for this girl even the slightest bit less his reply would likely have been to ignore her and slam his head against the table demanding he slip immediately into a restful coma. Instead he sat up and began munching on the slice of banana bread and tried at conversation.

“Well you know me,” raising his arms above his head and doing his best impression of drunken club goer. Crumbs flew everywhere. “How was your thing?”

“Well a LAN party’s not a LAN party until someone trips over a cord and totals your hard drive; that was definitely a highlight.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed and her lips puckered at the memory.

“So I guess you didn’t shack up with that gamer-chick with the massive jugs?” Dean smirked at Charlie’s failing to impress the brunette who had spurned him a week earlier.

“Maybe I’m just playing hard to get,” Charlie giggled “anyway, I wouldn’t write last night off as a complete loss.” The two exchanged ridiculous overacted eyebrow raises and laughed as she sat down sipping at her standard caramel cappuccino.

Despite being only twenty four, Charlie was working her way through a PhD in something computer related (which she had tried to explain to Dean on multiple occasions to no avail), and also managing the café she’d received from her parents’ death three years prior.  Dean could not count the times this small, red-haired geek had saved his bacon; from bailing his drunken ass out of prison once, to buying Sam birthday presents when money was tight, Charlie has been there for him for years now. She was like a little sister to him. An annoying, overly vibrant, nerdy sister. Though, an annoying little sister who baked a mean banana loaf, and had let him crash in her spare room for half a year free of charge when Dean was between jobs. Dean now paid for rent and food, but knew he could never repay the charity Charlie had shown him.

The two sat munching and sipping away and their respective breakfasts for some time, the silence only broken every now and then when Charlie got up to serve the occasional customer. It was 8am, and due to its distance from the college, the café was inconvenient for morning caffeine fixes, but made a killing from afternoon studiers.

Charlie was now pottering around the front bench, prettying up the displays.

“Hey,” Dean called “where’s Ruby? Isn’t she on Friday mornings?” Charlie’s best friend, Ruby, was an incorrigible flirt but not at all unpleasant young woman. This was good seeing as she seemed a constant presence at either Charlie’s place or the café. Dean didn’t mind her though; she’d come over whenever the game was on and she and Dean would throw back a couple of beers and watch and laugh as Charlie, the most qualified one in the room, desperately tried make sense of what was going on onscreen.

“Oh yes, uhhh about that, she’s asleep…” Dean may have seen a flash of pink in her cheeks, but it was difficult to tell under the layer of flour she’d accumulated on her face from her recent endeavour of muffins. “Are you able to take her shift this afternoon, if she takes yours tonight? Bobby called and you’re not needed in today at his… You’ll get time and a half.” The promise of extra money was enough to distract Dean from the uncharacteristic worry playing on her brow.

“Sure.” _Score!_ Dean, much like all of humanity, was not a fan of the graveyard shift he’d wound up in this season.

“Also I’ve called ahead and Ellen could use you tonight if you want the work.” Dean grunted an affirmative. _Shit, she was good_. “It’s ok, I know. I’m pretty great.” Charlie’s visage returned to its modal, pleasant smile as she bounced back to her muffins.

Dean looked down, suddenly remembering the textbook, last night, and the engaging stranger, Castiel. “Now what the crap are we going to do with you?” The kid was bound to come back for it. Dean decided he’d leave it at the counter after his shift, with an apology note and promise of free coffee. Not after he’d had a good flip through it though.

“So are you trading in your monkey wrench for a paintbrush, or…” A laptop plonking down on the table announced Charlie’s return. She was spotless, clean of any evidence that she’d just been elbows deep in batter—now, furiously tapping away. Dean would never be able to comprehend how anyone could achieve so much at this hour.

“Nah, some guy I was hanging out with left it here. And, well, I kinda claimed it.”

“Some guy, huh?” Charlie’s face drew a massive grin; her eyebrows bouncing up into her fringe and back again. “So will I be planning a coming out party any time soon?”

“Fuck off.” Shaking his head, Dean did impart a small chuckle as he rose, gathered his things (and the textbook) and headed towards the door.

“Peace out. Remember: Afternoon shift! Oh and when you get home, make sure you don’t…” But Dean was long gone

. . .

All the curtains were closed in the sitting room, so Dean opted to use the light as opposed to running around the normally bright, wooden floored apartment for curtains that would just be closed again later.

Dean couldn’t help but notice that the coffee table was riddled with empty bottles of beer. (The nerd party must’ve been shit). _Thunk_. Wallet, keys and newly acquired hardback. Dean looked down at his phone, dead. He was meaning to charge it last night.

The door to Charlie’s room dragged against the sprawl carpet as Dean ventured to grab the communal (her) phone charger. The room was kempt, everything approximately in a set location (everything except the mess of sheets on the bed, which seemed a stabbing contrast to the room’s sense of order). Dean’s room followed a less of rigid regime of locales and functioned more in a system of floor quadrants: To the right of the foot of his bed were clothes that _definitely_ needed to be washed, left to the foot of his bed, clothes that _probably_ needed to be washed.

The small black cord lay nonchalantly next to a pair of pink panties with what he believed to be lace round their waist. He sighed at the unholy, verging on incestuous image which crossed his mind. _Dude. Dude stop_. He’d definitely need to take a shower after this to cleanse his sins.

Dean heard a groan, and after his full assessment and realisation it had not come from himself he jumped. _What! Fuck!... What?_ Dean’s eyes snapped to the rumpled Princess Leia sheets. A forest of dark brown twisted out of the grey printed comforter and ran down a sleek shoulder, catching under a white bra strap.   _A girl? A girl!_ Dean’s eyes exploded wide. _Ruby!_ Charlie had more straight-girl-banging game than he’d thought. _Dayum_.

. . .

Phone now charging, Dean sat down on the couch and decided to flip through Castiel’s book. He ignored the flurry of texts that vibrated against an empty can of bourbon and coke. He’d check them later. _A Brief Compendium of Western Art Movements._ Brief. _Brief my ass_ , Dean eyeing the ungodly volume which he realised he’d need to rest on the table if he intended on looking at it for an extended period. Dean skipped a reasonable portion to what he (correctly) assumed to be an image of the Virgin Mary surrounded by angels. A few seconds in, he realised he’d have to rethink his understanding of what the word “Gothic” meant in this sense.  

Dean checked his phone:

> _-btw don’t go into my room_
> 
> _-Hey Dean, everything’s going well here. I kicked ass in my History thing like you said I would._
> 
> _-don’t do it… i will end u >:(_
> 
> _-winchester. i’ll slap a bitch if you do… also I told ruby and ellen we’d be hitting up the tavern tonight. ruby will meet us there after her/your shift. your option to decline has been removed. you can invite your new boyfriend ;P_

Urgh. Back to the book: Angel. Angel. Guy in a weird hat. Angel. Jesus, maybe. King who was _obviously_ overcompensating. Among of the endless depictions, one caught his attention and stopped him in his tracks. Even to Dean’s untrained eye it didn’t fit.

A single Angel. He was standing there, looking out of the book. The background, half frozen tundra and half burning wasteland. Piercing blue eyes staring past the viewer, past the painter. Wings, darkened by time and weather, dragging on the ground. Under the figure was a Hebrew inscription which had been awkwardly translated:

“Cassiel the guardian of tears and solitude. He stands alone watching the world, touching nothing. Until the end of days knowing nothing of the world he watches except how it was destroyed.”

_A figure from post Judeo-Christian mysticism, the archangel Cassiel (_ _Qafsiel_ _) as described in the Kabbalah is shown here observing the slow destruction of the world he watches. Cassiel is often associated with day Thursday, the planet Saturn, and the Moon in Jewish and Mesopotamian mythology and folk lore. Many variations of him exist. Throughout all he is described as a solitary figure presiding over the death of good men and rulers and as an observer of the cosmos._

Underneath the note, the only annotation Dean had seen written directly onto the book itself, scrawled desperately in blue pen:

Hebrew: Qafsiel, latin: Cassiel, bastardised Castiel

In that moment Dean didn’t find it odd that despite how little he knew of this strange man, he had just stumbled on such an intimate confession. Castiel was not just identifying with this angel’s name, but his life, his loneliness. Around the image were various post-its all assumedly colour coded describing the relevance of forms, imagery, lines, all of which were lost on Dean. But those few words in pen, which Castiel dared to tattoo onto the page, Dean understood them.

Dean tried to conjure Castiel’s face to his mind.

His dark brown mess of hair, likely been quiffed up when he’d left the house, fallen to confusion since. The way his two days of stubble carved out his cheek bones under the café’s fluorescents. The premature forehead lines: years of frowning and furrowing his brow, permanently etched onto his face. But even in his mind, Dean was drawn to the deep blue of Castiel’s eyes, the way they stood in such defiance of the red bleeding in from their edges. Inside himself he couldn’t turn away, there was something about the way they looked at him, at the world. It was something implacable, undefinable, that he’d seen in Castiel’s Hebrew counterpart.

The look of one who was no longer waiting. The look of one who lived in the world but had not been a part of it for some time. The look which said part of Castiel had been lost a long while ago. As Dean drifted off to sleep he puzzled over what it was, wishing he knew a way to help, wishing he knew why the eyes of man who denied sleep for a single night carried bags from years.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You read TWO WHOLE CHAPTERS of this detritus! Holy crudsicles, that there is dedication. Who's my favourite? *You are* 
> 
> This chapter introduced my favourite non-Destiel character. In the next chapter the spotlight is stolen by two good friends of mine: Tequila and Jack Daniels <3
> 
> The smut I promised... It's still on its way. The first installment has been written, but I should probably write the bit between here and there as opposed to non sequitur sexy-times.
> 
>  
> 
> Once again. PLEASE comment on how I can improve my writing. Pleeeeaase. It would suck if by the end of my (at least) 10 chapters, I was still no better than I am now.  
> That is all.


	3. Look! It’s Ryan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8 hours before he gets to go back to the café.
> 
> Castiel can’t wait. 7. He’s been sitting patiently for what feels like an eternity. 6. Warding off sleep, running on sheer excitement. 5. He’s been trembling throughout his lectures with a narcoleptic grin on his face. 4.
> 
> He should really go to the library and start his essay on Edward Hopper. 3. Though... Well, the library may not have the information he needs. 2. But Castiel knows what would. 1. The textbook. 0.

_Fuck_.

Dean had overslept. If he was going out tonight, he’d definitely, definitely have to shower before work. Dean looked at the clock, swore a lot, then ran towards the bathroom, peeling off his shirt and fumbling at his belt on the way.

Boom. Clean. Done.

Dean rushed into the living room, aware he was soon going to be late. What would he need? Keys? He’d be coming back with Charlie. But just in case. Wallet? Drinks. Yes. Phone? Charging still. He’d survive without it. Fuck, it’d be cold after the shift. He ran back to his bedroom and grabbed a plaid shirt from the (only just) acceptably clean pile. With that, he rapidly left the apartment. Lights off, curtains closed, and a blue eyed angel staring through paper at the ceiling.

Dean had forgotten the full extent of the chaos of the afternoon shift. Every manner of college student was there: from those seeking refuge and a place study, to those overeager to be in an obscure non-chain establishment where they could take pictures of their drinks on their phones for who-the-hell-cares. Dean prided himself on his flirtation arsenal, specialised for every possible subspecies.

Take this blond here: Thick rimmed glasses, fashionable but prescription. Either here to study for her humanities subject, take a break from the dusty lab from whence she came, people-watch for a creative writing course, or to take photos of every single thing she intended on consuming. Oh, hair tied back, but top unbuttoned low enough to keep things interesting… And the studying literature students have it. Dazzling smile, flexed biceps and careful wording was the name of the game. Dean was in his element.

It wasn’t until Nick showed up again for the brief early evening shift that Dean remembered he’d left Castiel’s textbook at the apartment.

“Son of a bitch…”

Oh well, it was an excuse to meet up with Castiel again.

~ ~ ~

Castiel was doing everything in his power to ignore how nervous he felt, walking up under the café’s green awning. He remembered Dean mentioning how he takes the evening shift on Fridays. He probably shouldn’t have been half as receptive when Dean had been describing his timetable the day before. He shouldn’t have been, but yet here he was now.

 _Deep breaths Castiel_. The skittish student mustered every ounce of calm and composure that he had tucked away from years of practiced conversation with a mirror. _We pause. We breathe. We remember what we came here for_. Castiel steadied himself, preparing for the Greek fantasy who was standing behind the counter. He wouldn’t be so shocked this time. That smile, those lips, that face, those unspeakably giant green eyes. He had this sorted. _Good. Ready? No..._ Why was this such an issue? He was just going to walk over, cool as a cucumber, and ask the attractive, straight stranger he had met yesterday for the art history book he had left behind. Castiel thought about that. _Cool as a cucumber_. Cucumbers really weren’t the cool though, or socially apt. _How were Cucumbers an ideal to strive towards?_

Castiel, suddenly identifying with the gourd species, entered whether he was prepared or not.

His ravenous eyes flew immediately towards the figure behind the counter. Aaaand, Dean was a woman. Curls of dark chocolate hair melting into tan, laced cleavage. Head tilted, arms tight by her side, leaning forward, ‘accidentally’ revealing a bit more skin than necessary as the patron slowly removed his hand from the tip jar. Yep, definitely. Castiel was certain this was not his Adonis.

Rushing to extinguish the swell of disappointment, Castiel waddled over to the cashier.

“—uh, hey. I —umm— was wondering if—err— anyone had located anarttextbookleftbehindlastnight.” The terrified muddle refusing to break eye contact with the googly-eyes glued to the display cup sizes.

The not-Dean let out a boisterous laugh. “You must be Dean’s friend, he told me about you. Castiel, right?” Castiel immediately clenched to hold back the heave of excitement. _Dean’s friend?_ Dean had mentioned him? Him? _HIM_? “He totally apologises, but he informs me that he has taken your book hostage.” The employee couldn’t help but smirk at the look of utter confusion before her. “He and your book are at Harvelle’s Roadhouse over on Stanley, he reckons he owes you a drink for stealing it. I’m Ruby by the way.”

Castiel’s head was spinning. What? Was this a date? Did Dean just indirectly ask him on a date? Was this how things worked?

Castiel thanked Ruby, stuttered twice trying to say “bye”, apparently bowed slightly, and quickly scuttled to the door.

. . .

The door crashed closed, quarter of an inch away from trapping the sprinting Castiel by his shirt. Meg was out. _Good_. Castiel was down to his white boxer briefs, tripping over his Dickies before he got to the bathroom.

Clean, smelling of vanilla body wash, did he have time to shave? Nope. Castiel threw on some aftershave anyway. Couldn’t hurt. Um hair? Hair. Up there. Down there. Sideways. Hairspray. Hairspray. Done. (He’d have to thank Meg’s friend Anna for teaching him that one). Right. Clothes. What does one wear on a date? What? Layers. Layers are safe. Layers of what? Layers that look like you know what you’re doing. That there, that’d work. Chic. Prepared.  Good.

Castiel ran out the door, white shirt half buttoned, khaki trench coat flailing behind, trying so hard not to trip while tying his navy blue tie that he was oblivious to it being backwards.

. . .

_Stop. Breathe. Don’t make it look like you ran._

Resolute, Castiel stopped dead in his tracks, deepening his breath, and turned his eyes to the smattering of stars above him. Most of them couldn’t be seen this far into civilisation, but Castiel could still pick out some of his favourite constellations. There he was, Orion, hunter of all things supernatural. Somewhere, there was an essay in a cardboard box about a certain interpretation which Castiel had intimately associated with. He drew a slow, melancholic breath and relaxed, letting the motes of condensation swirl against the chilly night-time huntsman.

_There was a tale and a half. A messy tale of absent mothers and unfeeling fathers._

_. . ._

A gift from Zeus to a religious fanatic, Orion never knew a mother. He survived solely to impress his father; fortunate then, that he was blessed with greater strength than any mortal ever born.

Orion grew to be a man of great but very particular skills, he spent much of his life busy but alone. Saving people, hunting things. He had little time for friends, and less for lovers.

But then he found the goddess Artemis, though more likely, she found him. They grew close, closer than Orion had ever been with anyone. Their closeness grew to become something else entirely. _He loved blindly_. _This was to be his undoing._

Zeus and Apollo, repulsed, would not allow Orion to be with their Artemis. _It would have been an unholy perversion._

Orion knew Zeus would never let him be with Artemis, but he supposed maybe if he ignored it, perhaps the fates would afford him this one luxury in a life of going without.

The man prayed to all he knew: to every god, every spirit, every entity he had heard uttered. He implored the heavens for this one favour, _but then, the heavens never had been too kind to him_. One day, while he was wading through the ocean, Artemis on the beach with Apollo, fortune did see it fit to deal Orion his last sorrow. His back turned, Artemis’ arrow, gleaming relentlessly against Mediterranean sun, came down to tear the life from him. Polished silver piercing hardened skin. The man to never know from whose hand the shot had truly come.

Castiel’s mind was far away, tracing celestial narratives miles above, not on the small river which had formed down his left cheek. His eyes settled on the virgin huntress, flowing chiffon pressed by weakened knees into wet sand. Snapped arrows falling away into the foam. Tears mingling with the waters off the Island Crete, as she received from the incoming waves the remains of man whose crime had been to love the wrong person.

Castiel had never been able to despise Artemis. Yes, it had been _her_ folly, _her_ wishful ignorance which had allowed Apollo’s words to bind her hand to the fatal arrow. It had been _her_ craving to please the insatiable, _her_ desire to satisfy her family which had drawn back the bowstring. Castiel should have, by all rights, hated Artemis. But he knew that on that day Artemis had denied a part of herself which would never breathe life again. _A part he would bury deep inside and would later cause his cause him to lock lips with a semi-automatic._

_Samandriel_

Unlike the huntress, he was written in no stars. Instead he was buried in Castiel’s home town. His body lingered in an unnamed grave and his dark smile in the back of Castiel’s mind.

The arrows which had pierced Castiel were nothing compared to the ones he directed at himself.

. . .

Castiel looked down. Staring at his feet. He waited for the cold night air to dry his face before he continued towards the bar.

. . .

The light from inside the Roadhouse sent warm shadows dancing onto the damp pavement. Castiel looked at himself in the reflection of the bay window. He could do this.

His hair was still intact and he took a mental note to thank Meg and Anna; their crusade to get him dateable was touching, though for the most bit, painfully misguided, but now… now Castiel would finally have an option to use all his newfound etiquette and skill sets.

As the door creaked, Castiel was hit immediately by the smell of a burning firewood and beer. The room was abuzz with the chatter of a small army of grad students and the shrieks of the happy and obviously intoxicated, plump woman across the room. Wine dancing dangerously close to the rim as her head flew back with the cackle, deep purple bleeding into one of the bars old donated couches and her burgundy and white diamond turtleneck.

There. The back of that head. That brunette mop which managed to be a mess despite being that short, that there was his Adonis. Castiel’s eyes traced to the seat across him in the booth. _A girl_.

Castiel wasn’t entirely certain whether the pain in his side was really there or whether it was just his stomach dropping to the floor. She was holding his hand and laughing.

The synapses in his mind finally thawing out, Castiel put two and two together. _Of course. Why would it have been a date. You stupid, stupid child_. _What. Were. You. Thinking._ Absorbed in his own disappointment, eyes fixed on the wood panelled flooring, Castiel nearly hurdled the nearby bar stool when a strong and certain hand struck his back and lingered. “Glad you got my message. How’ve you been Mr Novak?”

Adrenaline still circulating, Castiel took a breath to try answer but the words came to a sudden halt in his throat as his nose registered Dean’s presence. Musky, a scent of earth, notably of perspiration. A clean smell, no doubt about it, but a smell of one who was no stranger to hard work. Perhaps of unpolished wood, of terracotta. Castiel hadn’t been this close to the man before. It was smell which carried body, mass. Weathered but warming. He wanted to revert to a baser self and press his body against that smell, roll around in it, let it stain him. He grew very conscious of the hand which had met the middle of his back and had worked its way to rest on his shoulder. A muscular half-embrace. Even through his coat, Castiel could make out the form of a bicep and the warmth radiating from Dean’s chest to the side not donning a man-sized hand.

The air previously carrying the words “I’ve been well thank you” came gurgling out of Castiel, his lips smacking open and closed, following the breath unthinkingly.

“Uhh, you ok there?”

Castiel willed his illegible vocal scramble into formed words. “Oh –um, yes, sorry. I was thinking. Uh… Art.” A desperate arm pointing to the painting on the adjacent wall of an old country house.

“I see,” Dean chuckled “Come, meet my friend Charlie.” Castiel’s eyes unintentionally squinting and his brow furrowing slightly at that. _Friend, yeah they were “friends”._

After brief pleasantries Castiel slid into the ( _too_ ) small booth on Dean’s side. His ( _Her)_ Adonis had asked what the later-comer would have to drink. Still reeling from the novelty of how Dean smelt, and trying to ignore the warmth of the man’s leg pressed up against his, Castiel desperately clutched at his memory’s list of every alcoholic drink he’d ever heard named.

 “Wait… You do, drink right?”

“Of course.” ( _Never_ )

“Oh well, first one’s on me.” Dean demanded, that same sly grin from last night creeping across his face and delaying Castiel’s attempts at unheeded refusing the patronage. “What’ll you have?”

“Uhh, what’s good here?” ( _I literally have no idea what alcoholic drinks exist, whatever will get me drunk enough to accidently throw up on your redheaded girlfriend will suffice._ )

Dean’s brow creased in thought for a moment before his face slipped into a knowing smirk.

( _That’s it. Game over. He knows I have no idea what I’m doing._ )

“The Tequila shots here are always good...” Castiel nodded furiously; too distracted by that growing smile to actually register what was said. It was angelic. He trusted that smile with his life.

. . .

After three Jack and Cokes, the tequila still tasted like death and hell fire, but Castiel resolved to love the flavour.

“So what are you doing at college?” asked the friendly red head in Dean’s brief absence, as she decided to switch from Budweiser to a pink drink that Castiel really wanted try. No he couldn’t. He had to keep alternating Jack Daniels and Tequila; that apparently seemed to be the rules. Meg hadn’t told him about this practice.

“Oh you know, just the generic artsy degree.” ( _Double majoring art history and classics, intending on a masters in something to do Baroque Italian art and literature_.)

“Oh cool, you liking it?”

“Oh yeah, it’s cool.” ( _I love it. I enjoy dead painters and storytellers far more than everyone I’m obliged to talk to on a daily basis._ )

Even as Castiel began to feel his head inflate and the walls begin a game of musical chairs, he was aware of how little he was contributing to the conversation.

“So, how long have you and Dean been together?”

Charlie let out a snigger which evolved into an unexpectedly loud snort. “No-no. Dean. Dean is lovely. But, ahhhh. He’s not really my—uh— type… but I suppose that’s people for you, for all I know I may not even be his.” She shook her head in dismissal of the joke, though after she trailed off she shot an eyebrow at Castiel. A gesture which he missed, toying at an ice cube with his straw, trying to hide the mixture of relief and unexpected ecstasy which tickled at the side of his mouth. _Not his girlfriend. Not her Adonis._

Castiel downed the rest and with a new found enthusiasm began to ask about Charlie’s thesis.

~ ~ ~

 “Is he gonna be ok?” Castiel had only just noticed, the music here was really good. Really, really good. He should. He should buy this music. This song was probably his favourite thing. “He’ll be fine, he can crash at ours for the night.” The bar jolted towards him an—oh nope, nearly fell, cool now. How long had Ruby been here for? Oh yeah! This song was great! He should go see the band! Castiel staggered toward the band. Towards that table. Towards the band. He wanted to sing along and he be—“woah there big guy, come on.” Dean. Oh. Look. It was Charlie. She was so friendly. She was the friendliest. He was glad he had met her “haha, thanks Castiel, you too.” Peanuts on the bar! Urgh. They tasted horrible. Spat those out. The hanging ceiling light whirled past. This bar was fun. Bars are fun. Where were Castiel’s arms? Over Charlie and Dean. A walking team hug. Walking team straight line sideways hug towards the door. Kissed Charlie’s cheek. Kissed Dean’s cheek. Gasped. Turned pink. Oh. Why was there a stool? They we’re leaving? BYE EVERYONE. Oh look! Stars. Did you guys know. That’s. That one there. That’s. Oreo. No. Ryan! Look. It’s Ryan in the sky. HELLO RYAN! DON’T EVER DRINK TEQUILA RYAN! IT’S BURN-Y!

~ ~ ~

Castiel’s face had been located to a pillow. Warm. Comfortable. Content. Eye weighed shut, the spinning room rolling more into a lapping of waves, back and forth. Touches of coffee, beer, and musk entwined with skin. The homely smell of an embrace, of a Sunday afternoon, of porridge.  Castiel’s finger tracing barely noticeable circles on the week old linen.

“Night Cas.”

A Nickname. He’d never received an actual nickname before. With limbs spread-eagled atop the sheets and a droopy grin on his face, he drifted off to sleep, covered in the smell of Dean and cloaked in a new name. A name from a friend.

Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omfg, three chapters now. If you're reading this (assuming you're not a crazy person who skips chapters) you've now read THREE chapters of this shitstorm.
> 
> Same drill as always: Please go ahead and leave critiques or recommended improvements. (PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE)
> 
> Coming up:  
> A mini smut in the next chapter (Little smut. A pre-smut if you will. Baby smut... but no baby smut because... no.)
> 
> From here on out, I'm planning on writing a little bit of bow-chica-wow-wooow in every second chapter. That'll continue until the end of the fic (chapter 10 or later if I'm making legitimate progress and getting better at writing... I have the whole multiple endings thing going on right now.)
> 
> Coolibeans, peace out.
> 
>  
> 
> PS:  
> If I keep up this level of fic-on-to-it-ness (which I shouldn't because I have finals in a month) I should have the next chapter up in a day as with all of them so far.
> 
> No promises though. (Especially because I was meant to do a section of cardiovascular study today and ended up instead spending two hours just drawing anatomical hearts)
> 
> Oh, and to those who left sweet comments: Naaawww guys. You're so (delusional) nice. You made me make inappropriate "NAAAWWW" noises during a lecture about β-oxidation of fatty acids. 
> 
> To those *cough* theimportanceofbeingvictoria *cough* who left actual advice for improvement... Thank you, It's nice to have something to work with ^-^  
> *glares at the rest of y'all though*


	4. Woah There Big Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -An ounce of whisky-  
> -A beer-
> 
> Maybe Castiel just isn’t showing up. 
> 
> -The rest of the Black Russian Charlie realised she wasn’t a fan of-
> 
> Surely he needs his textbook, maybe Dean should have left it at the café. Dean looks down at the hardback he had obtained in the unspeakably early hours of the morning.
> 
> -Another beer-
> 
> Dean’s shift is over and his eyes are wandering to the door of Harvelle’s Roadhouse a little more frequently than he account for. He’ll be here soon. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMFG Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry 12 whole days late *cries*
> 
> As always:  
> Critiques/Recommendations on how I can be less shit are welcomed, invited, and begged for. If your critique is "You said 24 hours... you lying bag of dicks" I will accept that too TT~TT
> 
> Warning, this isn't an exciting chapter (lol as if the others were), it's just the last chapter but more from Dean's POV, and is just because it may be needed for things in the future (depending on which ending I go with)

 “So, what time’s your boyfriend showing up?” Charlie’s eye’s darted around the bar in mock intrigue.

Dean shot her and incredulous glare. He was definitely going to need a considerable amount more alcohol if this were to be the running joke of the night. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a guy, who I thought might be cool to hang out with.”

“Naww, that’s kinda cute.” Dean could feel his cheeks starting to redden as both their attentions were stolen by the woman in the corner who let out a shrill scream of laughter. A diamond of her patterned turtleneck no longer white, now permanently a shade of Pinot noir.

Dean’s focus was brought back to the redhead as she lay her hands on his and looked deep into his amber and forest green eyes. “But just so you know,” a curl emancipating itself from behind an ear as she lowered her voice and grew closer, “If you do ever need the same-sex, sex talk. Remember I am here for you, all you need to do is just ask—or… google image it.” Charlie’s serious façade melted away to a fit of giggles which wrinkled the bridge of her nose.

Dean let out a disgruntled groan and opted to look around the room as opposed to giving Charlie the satisfaction of a visual response of his discomfort. His eyes fell on an overdressed figure standing pigeon toed, eyes boring into a pair imitation blue converses.

Castiel.

The first few beers had begun to work their way into Dean’s blood and seeing how intently Castiel was staring at his shoes, he decided to have some fun.

Sneaking the perimeter of the room, his broad shoulders tensing upwards as he stalked his prey, Dean approached Castiel from behind. He drew close, so close that he could smell the skin on the smaller man’s neck, hear the rustle of his trench coat as it rose and fell with his breath. Dean narrowed in, half and inch way from the man, not daring to draw breath, cloaking himself in the rising wisps of Castiel’s aftershave. Fresh, light, possibly hints of vanilla. Dean readied himself, a broad smile chiselled into his face, hand raised, fingers splayed.

 Down with a firm but forgiving blow went Dean’s hand onto the middle of Castiel’s back.

“Glad you got my message. How’ve you been, Mr Novak?”

Every sinew of Castiel’s body struck a chord and turned to stone. Through a shirt, a blazer, and a trench coat, as though Dean’s hand were resting on bare skin, he could feel the guy’s heart trembling. Peering round, Dean could see Castiel’s eye were huge, pupils dilated, disengaged from the world. Dean sniggered softly and slipped his hand to the shorter man’s shoulder where it rested comfortably. He had scared the poor guy shitless. He was fine though— _Wait, was he?_

A sudden bolt of concern ran up Dean’s spine and down his extended arm: Castiel was freezing cold and making strange noises, still staring blankly at the wall. _God, had he killed him already?_ Dean brought himself closer, pulled Castiel into himself. He hadn’t expected _this_ level of physical intimacy with anyone tonight, let alone his new dude friend. He shook the thought away— _hah, this guy wouldn’t be interested either way_. Dean’s mind thrust into momentary introspection. _Wait. What?_ _Calm down, otherwise Charlie will have a field day_. _Back to the matter at hand_.

 “Uhh, you ok there?”

Castiel’s arm immediately shot up pointing towards the wall in response. “Oh –um, yes, sorry. I was thinking. Uh… Art.”

“I see.” Dean relaxed. He was speaking again. Castiel was still alive. _Personal note, don’t scare the arts student._ Dean rumbled out a deep chuckle.

He kept his arm around Castiel and tried not to think much of it, _the guy was cold. He was just looking out for a friend. That’s fine right?_

“Come, meet my friend Charlie.”

. . .

Dean had slid in next to Castiel, unintentionally sitting with legs entirely too open. His body was sore an stiff; the familiar ache of Charlie’s couch had long since become an unpleasant memory, but now he would give anything for the soothing warmth of Castiel’s right thigh to work his way through the rest of his muscles. Yeah, it was a little gay, but for the wonders that their proximity was doing for Dean’s thigh and knee, Castiel could have been a leather bound gimp for all Dean cared. At least, Castiel wasn’t unpleasant to be close to: he was warming up, and he didn’t smell bad.

Actually, as warmth and colour returned to Castiel’s flesh the thickening scent of vanilla began to roll off of him. It was a pleasant smell, coupled with something— _Christmas-y?_ The smell drew Dean into his mind, back to his first girlfriend. Sophomore year of high school. Felicia Collins, Junior. She had wanted a boyfriend to help her disappoint her father, the local pastor and mechanic, and to impress her friends, a bunch of snobby volleyballers with terrible skin and small tits. Dean, much like many freshmen, had wanted a girlfriend for a different reason entirely.

At least one of them got what they’d hoped for. _It wasn’t Felicia._

Their fourth date: Young Dean was getting frustrated and impatient, so he decided to up his game. Having misappropriated a bottle of wine and the keys to a ‘67 Impala from his father, who was blacked out on the couch (a fifth of whisky staining the carpet), he decided he would take her to the local lookout. If he had found out, John Winchester wouldn’t have minded much. Either way, he’d never been an angry man—gruff, firm, distant, but never angry. Even the death of his wife and burning down of their house three and half years prior hadn’t changed that. It made John many things: defeatist, alcoholic, spirallingly depressed, but never angry. Dean gave a respectful head nod to the unconscious man, and was off out the door.

Staring down at the purple reflection of stars through the windscreen, Dean traced his fingers around the rim of the Biggerson’s regular soft-drink cup. He was trying to find something sexy to say. He was yet to become a master of suave seduction.

“It’s nice up here Dean,” Mumbled Felicia, pretending she enjoyed the sting of the (cheap) wine “the view of the city from here is beautiful.” She gazed out of the windscreen, down at sea of streetlights. A quilt of squares and diamonds, lights smattered predictably across the network of roads and avenues.

“The view from where I’m sitting is better though.” A sly grin stretched across the sixteen year old boy’s face.

A mess of a hands. Her wiry curls catching partly in his mouth as he sucked at the taste of vanilla on her neck. The sweet scent filling his nostrils. Her pale skin filling his hands. The heaving of flesh devolved to an uncertain seventeen year old girl with her head in her boyfriend’s lap, his hands scratching against her scalp as he pushed her head down. Lower. Further. Deeper.

Felicia later told her best friend of the passing events, the reason for the bruises adorning her neck and throat. It took less than an hour for the entire school to find out. Rumours of her over-eagerness and his _sizeable_ response spread like a tender rash. They didn’t really talk after that.

Maybe they _did_ both get what they’d hoped from the relationship, Dean contemplated to himself.

. . .

Charlie’s empty glass clinked down on the table, snapping Dean back to the bar. The scent of vanilla was once again distinctly present, rather than dreamlike and hazy.

“What’ll you have to drink?” Dean turned to meet Castiel’s pensive gaze. “Wait… You do, drink right?”

“Of course.” Castiel stumbled over the syllables while forcing eye contact. A desperate attempt to appear adamant.

 _Heh, oh dear,_ Dean should have known. Castiel obviously wasn’t the kind to frequent a bar.

 “Oh well, first one’s on me.” ( _Because I guess we’re going to have to pump a shit tonne more alcohol into you.)_ “What’ll you have?”

 “Uhh, what’s good here?”

Dean took a moment to process the question. Suddenly, an epiphany: _It appears we have newbie to the game of drink itself_ , Dean contemplated. _I suppose someone has to corrupt every good little angel at some point_.

“The Tequila shots here are always good...”

Dean covered most of a snigger as he watched Charlie’s eyes grow to consume much of her face. He knew that look:

<You’re not going to…>

<Just watch me.> He replied with a look and a devilish grin. Castiel’s head was a flurry of nods and agreeable noises.

 _Oh well_ , Dean mused, _you haven’t really met someone until you’ve met them drunk_.

. . .

“I’ve seen that look before. Not-so-dapper thoughts, ay?”

“Hey Ruby.”

Waiting for his fourth ( _maybe_ ) drink at the bar, Dean hadn’t been entirely conscious of how intently he was staring over at the booth. Castiel had just thrown back the rest of his drink and seemed to be warming up to Charlie. Dean was pleased. It contented him to see Castiel’s timid grin dare its way across that face, pulling his ever growing mess of stubble towards those pools of liquid cobalt. Dean could see that the alcohol had already begun to bleed its way into the cheeks which balanced precariously on the novice’s smile.

“So how’s my favourite book stealing nerd been?”

“I’ve been fi—”Dean trailed off hallway through the response, still engrossed in the scene on the other side of the bar.

What would those cheeks feel like? Would Dean be able to feel the blood run through them? He took a sip and pressed his glass to his face to feel the cold and condensation. _Fascinating_.

“God, you haven’t been roofied or something, have you?”

Dean’s eyebrows jolted up his face, eyelids following. He focused all his energy, and attention to forming a syntactically acceptable response, “Nah, just tired as hell. How was my shift? I suppose it gave you the time to sleep off last night’s escapades.” His eyes narrowed, a smirk peeked at the side of his lips.

Ruby cracked first; as she laughed her leather jacket bounced and caught the orange tinted light. “What’s a girl to do in a situation like that, also…" her head snapping towards the obviously busy bartender “…who does she have to kill to get her fucking Vodka Ice?” She looked back at Dean and bit her lip, feigning frustration.

They observed their two increasingly intoxicated pet-students approach a level of friendship which only existed during inebriation. Castiel’s grin was growing ever wider, and Charlie’s gestures more animated.

“Well they seem to be hitting it off. Good, I wouldn’t object much to seeing more of his cute little face.” Ruby adjusted herself in her bra.

“I doubt you’re his kinda girl.” Ruby shot him a jaded glare. “I don’t know: I figure he’s into the intelligent, thoughtful girls. More of the _this_ …” his finger drawing circles around Ruby’s forehead “than the _this_ …” his hand sweeping past her front. It gave Dean an excellent conversational excuse to stare her boobs. To contemplate the way the light carved out her tan breasts from the black lace edging of her bra which poured out from underneath the electric blue tight-fitted dress.

 “…I bet neither of us could keep up with what goes on in his artsy world.” Dean contemplated why he included himself in that observation. _It was true though, but still, why?_

“I bet he’s great in the sack though, the quiet ones always secretly are.” Ruby unthinkingly clutched at the bust of her dress with one hand.

“Sexually frustrated… already?” Dean jeered.

“Pfft, like you can talk. I’m not the one who’s been ogling the lesbian for the last five minutes.”

“I wasn’t” Dean air-quoted “ _ogling_ , Charlie, I was…” What had he been looking at? Had he been staring at Castiel this entire time? Had be glaring at how his brow would flitter and leap when he was talking about college or films they’d seen, and how it would a draw stiff unwaveringly shadow under his eyes when talking about serious matters?

Dean tried to recall any recently noticed details of his surroundings. _Nope_. He hadn’t noticed the loud, portly woman falling of her chair laughing. He hadn’t noticed the unusually loud crunch of a new log cracking in half in the heat of the fire. He hadn’t noticed the obviously plastered busty Asian beauty striking out with yet another man there with his girlfriend.

It appeared he _had_ been staring at their booth this whole time. It fascinated Dean how even though Castiel was staring intently at Charlie, his eyes drinking in every detail of her very animated narrative, Dean could still see some thought processes flickering away behind those eyes. Dean recalled the back cover of the book which had brought Castiel here: mismatched post-it notes, violent clashes of coloured paper squares, all with a few stanzas of this, or a paragraph of that. _It must be loud in that head_.

Dean turned back to Ruby to finish his sentence. He found that she had grown bored and was now busy flirting with some patron at the bar. Dean sighed and tried his luck with the brunette a few meters over.

Turns out she was there with her boyfriend. _Fuck_. _Why was everyone and their friggen soul mate in this bar?_

Dean meandered back to the booth and joined the conversation. College. Movies. Charlie’s sex life. Castiel’s blushing in response to the previous topic. High school.

. . .

On returning from the bathroom, one thing was apparent: Castiel was utterly shitfaced.  Dean stumbled over to find Castiel blowing raspberries onto an empty glass, his head resting sideways on the table. Charlie returned with something bright orange in a glass which seemed half drink, half decorative fruit and mini-umbrella.

 “Is he gonna be ok?” Charlie deciding perhaps she could do without the rum cocktail.

“He’ll be fine, he can crash at ours for the night.”

Suddenly distracted by something behind them, Castiel sat bolt upright. Dean noticed how the man’s slender body took a moment to adjust to its vertical orientation, swaying forward, lagging behind. Castiel’s head apparently hadn’t detected this internal rebalancing and was now blundering towards the other side of the bar, his tumultuous path interrupted by the occasional chair or table.

“Woah there big guy, come on.” Dean boomed. Just as Castiel was tripping over his feet, his head on a collision course with wall and mounted moose antler, Dean threw his arms around him from behind.

As Dean embraced Castiel, waiting for him to realise what was happening and stop trying to walk towards the lead guitarist, Dean was distracted by what may have been a twitch in the front his ripped jeans.

Castiel, finally comprehending what was occurring turned around to face Dean. Apparently he was too far gone to mind the mutual renunciation of personal space.

“Haarlo Dean.” A gritty wave of voice and ethanol unfurling in Dean’s face. Despite the glazed sheen over his eyes, Castiel was still staring intently. Dean thought it comical almost, those glacial blue eyes, he could fall into them. He knew he’d been staring for a bit too long, but Dean contemplated those eyes. The folds and undulations of those irises, waves teetering on the edge, readying themselves as they fell away into the expanse of Castiel’s mind. A whirlpool maybe, pulling in as much of the bar down to the depths of Castiel’s self. Dean’s drunken mind plotted a course of action.

As Charlie appeared to help, the two swung Castiel’s arms over their backs and proceeded to carry him out of the bar.

As they exited into the cool night, Castiel turned around one last time:

“BYE ERRYONE!”

. . .

Castiel was piled onto Dean’s bed; limbs sprawled across the dark grey sheets. His right cheek and nose buried in a pillow.

He was a mess, he was going to hate himself in the morning, but right then in that moment he looked happy. A grin clung to his otherwise drooped and squashed face.

Sitting on the foot of the bed, Dean pondered to himself: He had succeeded. Castiel had had a good night. He was in for the ride of his life when he woke up, but until then— Dean clung to the sincere and warming sense of bliss on Castiel’s perfect face.

“Night…”

As Dean turned to go and began to utter a farewell, his eye caught on the textbook which had been set down by the bed. Dean’s mind drew back to the Angel Cassiel and the lonely, sleep-starved student boldly scrawling ink onto the page. Dean’s eyes flitted back to the sleeping one, who now seemed to bear no resemblance to the painted figure.

Aware of the trace elements of beer in his veins, and the tiredness which weighed his eyelids, Dean allowed his intoxicated mind to linger on the thought. He denied the connection. He rebuked the clouds which had apparently lingered above the man’s eyes, and still sometimes could be seen behind them. Castiel had no place feeling sad when, even boozed to hell and back, barely conscious; he could smile so truthfully and sincerely. Dean could feel his vision growing uncharacteristically misty. This man— He would protect this man.

A wave of benevolent defiance surged in Dean. This man be barely knew, who he had only really just met, he swore to keep that smile on his face. This was not the painter’s Qafsiel, but rather…

 

“… Cas.”

 

Dean let his body collapse onto the couch in the lounge. He stripped down to his boxer briefs and singlet, deciding that Charlie’s AC and his lingering beer blanket would be sufficient to last him the night.

Dead grabbed at the grey material which clung at his crotch and readjusted himself. Somewhere between the alcohol and how high they’d cranked the heat up in the taxi, Dean had perspired just enough to allow his otherwise fresh pair of underwear to catch around his loins. This appeared to be an inside job.

Sliding his hand down his stomach, fingers sneaking under the elastic waistband, Dean released a sigh of relocated comfort.

His mind drifted to the man sleeping in the adjacent room. Not Castiel, the angel of Thursday. Not Cassiel, the guardian of tears and solitude. Not Qafsiel, the ancient figure, lonely and friendless. Cas. Dare he say it? Yes, the residual light-headedness allowing the thought safe passage: Not the painter’s Cassiel, _Dean’s_ Cas.

Dean writhed and twisted, trying to get comfortable on couch.

There was something about Cas sprawled on those grey sheets which leaped to Dean’s mind. The vulnerability, the drunken nearly coma-ed out honestly. The blissful ignorance for how, contorted, he lay on his back spread-eagled, face buried in Dean’s pillow. The complete lack of concern for the way the bottom of his white button up shirt had come undone, revealing a thin trail of dark hair and the faint but muscular lines which lead under his black rumpled suit pants. Dean remembered the way everything, wrinkled and twisted, clung to Cas’ body.

That was when Dean noticed. His writhing had evolved away from finding a comfortable point on the couch and for the past five minutes had ventured towards the grinding of hips up towards his hand which still lingered in his underwear. The hand which now encircled his firm self. Catching himself bucking into his fist with what had become a desperate sense of urgency, Dean recoiled in shock. His blood attempted to redirect itself from the extremity to his cheeks.

Uncertain of what to do with the image of Cas in his mind, or the sweltering heat in his loins, Dean rolled over, smothering his horror in the worn fabric of the couch.

His consciousness swiftly departed. The troubling bulge, however, took longer to convince. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOOOOOOOOOOORRY I honestly feel so bad. The end of semester "FUCK EXAMS ARE IN LESS THAN 3 WEEKS!!" finally hit along with "HAHAHA ASSIGNMENTS I SHOULD HAVE STARTED SOONER!"
> 
> I have an assessment for physics on Tuesday, so probably Wednesday for Chapter 5. (If I don't upload by then feel free to write to your government and tell them to bomb New Zealand... unless you're in America... then just, idk, cry about not having a government)
> 
> First smutty-smut (well, next step in the smut continuum, not raging porn where words like moist, spurt, dripping, and ravaged get used... but smuttier than this.) in Chapter 6. 
> 
> Warning: If episode 2 of season 9 has another Cas/Water bottle scene though... I may be swoon and die (meaning no new chapters ever). Seriously though.
> 
> Oh... and. Um, another thing: a work in progress... A non-AUish fic about Dean and Castiel, except Castiel's soul is stuck in a pomegranate.  
> I may have already planned some of it. It may contain copious amounts of shower sex. It may be the best thing I've ever written (though, I suppose that's not too hard.)
> 
> PS if there were any mighty issues which I didn't pick up when proof reading, sorry. I just wanted to get this up so I could stop feeling guilty.


	5. Drink This, Swallow This

Castiel was falling, drifting. He knew nothing of his bearings, perhaps he was upside down, perhaps on his side. His body did not feel the cool of the water, nor did his eyes sting from the salt. Looking in front of him, splinters of light pierced the grey-blue haze. Light forms dancing, ephemeral, falling as glacial blue beams, drawn down to the cloudy darkness below him. A cluster of bubbles brushed past his cheek. The light refracted delicate sparks of green and amber the as they fluttered by. Castiel could feel his arms and legs trailing behind, stretching towards the surface, as his body was pulled gently down. His navy tie twisted loose and fluttered off upwards. A stream of bubbles trailing its ascent further away as it faded, indistinguishable from the colossal blue.

He may have remembered a beach. The warmth of the sun kissing his neck. A salty breeze skipping under the collar of his shirt. He may have remembered the nearby sound of lapping waves against the sand. The water taking deep breaths, drawing Castiel in, pulling him away with the foam. He may have remembered the water stealing his body from the land. He may have remembered letting it.

Castiel could now sense the water becoming darker as he fell. More cloudy. Fewer moving shards of light pierced the calm tide at this depth. It was quiet. Peaceful. He had no intention of heaving his body back up to the surface and resigned himself to his slow descent.

He closed his eyes allowing the euphoria of darkness take him. The desire to breathe clutched at his chest but he ignored it, fixing his thoughts on the flow of water past him.

Suddenly. Tumbling. Falling. Unseen turbulence throwing his body over his legs. Castiel tried to bring his arms and legs in. Tried. Tried to shield himself. Was thrown, twisting further down. Hands snatching his arms away from him. Ropes twisting his ankle. Pulling one back. Catching his heel. Bolts of fabric, shrouding him, knotting his legs.

A burning pain. A stabbing in the middle of his torso. Distant but familiar voices. A muffled wail. Broken sobs.

. . .

Castiel woke with a start, sucking in a mountain of air to fill his empty lungs. Where was he? Suddenly sitting upright, Castiel felt the room spin. It refused to settle, and continued as a pulsing deluge, swirling in his head. He could feel his heart beating out a frenzied rhythm on the front of his skull. His stomach lurched. With the sudden movement vertical, Castiel had to tense much of his core to hold down the wave of bile.

He felt like death. He looked it too: hair sticking up in all angles, washed-out face marred by the line of drool running from his lip to chin. Bloodshot, dry, and sore. Dark bags like he’d been punched in both eyes. His legs were entangled in Dean’s dark grey sheets and the black trousers he’d forgotten to take off. He felt a second wave of acid as he balled up, clutching his head in his hands. Putrefaction settled on all the internal surfaces of body. There was a sudden desire to heave out every organ onto the pillow next to him and a need to hold his throbbing head, lest it explode. Castiel wished the ground below would swallow him whole and purge this poison from his corpse.

_So this... this is what a hangover feels like._

Castiel was suddenly aware of a bruised feeling on his shin and a slight sting on his left side. With his shirt kinked and coiled half way up his chest, Castiel examined the two substantial crescent indentations which had begun to leak a small measure of blood. He examined the flow, his eyes following to the lines of red which had worked their way under two fingernails of his right hand.

_I thought we were past this. Apparently not._

Trying to orientate himself, he dragged his sluggish eyes around the room. Two paralleled piles of clothing, straddling the foot of the bed and offsetting the stack of CD’s in the corner of the room. Forms too dark to make out. An Alice in Chains poster: torn corners, an uneasy contrast between orange of the background against the steal blue painted wall. The paper’s creased lines suggested a life well-travelled. Though, Castiel noted, it was not nearly as battered as the ACDC poster on the back of the door.

To his right, on a small bedside table was a book propped up against a lamp. He blinked, trying to make out the title. _A Brief Compendium of Western Art Movem—Oh right, the textbook._ Under the title sat a blue post-it square with legible black ink printing a message. Castiel blinked his eyes again and focused on the note:

> **_Morning Cas,_ **
> 
> **_I’m gonna go ahead and guess you probably feel like shit._ **
> 
> **_Drink_ ** _**this** <an arrow pointing to a glass of water sitting to the right>_
> 
> **_Swallow this_ ** _ <an arrow pointing down to two aspirins>_
> 
> **_\- D_ **

D? Dean. Right. Yes. Dean. Dean Winchester. Understanding poured over Castiel like an unwelcome sleet.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhh-it,” he whined through clenched teeth.  Castiel didn’t remember much of what had transpired the night before but he was certain he’d been an utter mess. He had to go apologise.

Castiel stumbled out into the living room, clutching at the wall for balance.

Peering through the haze still clouding his vision, Castiel spotted a white sock and ankle hanging off the stained fabric couch which faced away from him. He circled it silently.

Dean. Asleep. Singlet riding halfway up his stomach. Boxer briefs.                     

Dean was slumped on the sofa, sleeping on his side, face buried in his left elbow. His right arm trailed down to a loose fist, a knuckle grazing a scratched floor board. Castiel’s eyes wandered up his bare muscular legs to the heather grey boxer briefs which clung relentlessly to Dean’s form.

Castiel wanted to feel ashamed. He really, really wanted to feel ashamed. Instead he allowed his eyes to ravage the curvature of Dean’s ass. _Ehh, he was going to hell anyway, Right?_ Moving from the fabric on his hip, Castiel noticed his gaze sliding down to Dean’s front and blazed pink. _Those left little to the imagination._ Castiel might have noticed a tremor of movement under the grey material but had quickly averted his gaze to Dean’s stomach. Dean’s white singlet had risen to reveal his belly button and a sea of slightly paler skin: creamier, softer than tanned muscular sinews of his calves and even his thighs.

A sudden jolt of movement. Castiel nearly losing his balance as he flinched.

Dean let out a moan and his hand moved, sliding to rest, lightly cupping his crotch.

“Caa…” The slow whisper curled off Dean’s sleeping lips, “Cas.”

Castiel stifled most of a gasp as realisation fell upon him. _Was he watching Dean having a sex dream?!_ More to the matter, _WAS DEAN HAVING A SEX DREAM ABOUT HIM?!_ Castiel’s mind clouded with a mixture of delight and horror at the possible voyeurism.

“Yeeeeeeah… sssshhhh… ggggnnnnrggnnnnn”

Noticing his mouth begin to pool water, Castiel swallowed and found himself choking, ever so elegantly, on his own spit. The noise didn’t seem to wake Dean though.

_Oh my God! WHAT!?_ _Castiel James Novak what the fuck are you going to do? What is the protocol? WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED YOU DO?_

The sound of his heart pounding in his ears was deafening. Castiel could barely think, running (and tripping) through every social gambit, every possible piece of advice, every late night ‘how to talk to boys’ lesson from Meg. Nothing. He contemplated whispering Dean’s name back. Maybe. _Is that, is that what one is supposed to do?_

“D-D-Deaan[?]”

“ Mmmmmhm… yes… Shhhh…”

_Victory_. Castiel couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit of pride seep in amongst the painful discomfort and strange pleasure of the dilemma he’d found himself in.

“yyeeeeeeh ssaay myyy –hhrrnngg… Ohhhh Ruuuby....” A grunt of approval.

_Oh._

The message came like a bullet. _Of course not._ Castiel stuttered out a broken breath, as if he’d been punched in the gut. _Of course he was dreaming about Ruby_. He felt his spirit plummet and pour out into a puddle on the floor.

Dean stirred, and then jerked, driving his singlet even further up his chest. A glimpse of nipple. Castiel choked on his tongue.

~ ~ ~

Dean awoke to a distant sound of coughing. The dream of seconds ago was already fading from his memory to be replaced by a lingering recollection of something important from last night…

“Cas.” Dean uttered, mouthing out the individual phonemes, feeling the way the word fit in his mouth. Suddenly, the latter portion of his night came flooding back. Drunk Cas. Dean staring at him sleeping.  The nickname. Dean, drunken and disorientated, writhing on the couch, one hand grasping himself and the other urgently darting around his chest. Wait, what?… WHAT?! Was that gay!? No. Wait. WAS HE GAY?!

“Yes.”                                                                                                                                            

“What?!” Dean’s head snapping up to see Castiel standing before him, a dishevelled mess, shirt missing a button and pants creased to hell and back.

“You said my —uhh— name? Sorry if I woke you.”

_Oh, yes… right._ He had spoken Castiel’s name, or rather his name for Castiel. Wait. _His_ name for Castiel. Was that kinda gay?

_Fuck._

Dean had never really thought too much about his sexuality. Sure, he could appreciate a good looking man. He could see an impressive chest or pair of arms and contemplate how he should hit the gym more and the pies less. Never though had Dean really had to begin to question his— _Fuck. No. Stop_. This wasn’t the time for this kind of introspection.

Castiel’s brow had furrowed and his eyes grew to confused squints. Dean would have to leave _whatever the fuck this situation was_ until later and engage with his guest for now.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. No you didn’t wake... I mean, ummm, morning. I hope you slept well.”

_(What the fuck. I hope you fucking slept well. That’s fucking gay!)_

Dean couldn’t help but cringe internally and avert his eyes from Castiel’s. He looked down, only to cringe some more. Staring down at his boxers, Dean was confronted with an ever real reminder of why it was always best to slept face down when without a blanket. _Fuck_. Well, maybe Cas hadn’t noticed. Mind you, his eye contact had been firm and unwavering.

Dean sat up fully and drew his legs in, hugging his knees. He really wasn’t flexible enough for comfortably sitting like this (and hadn’t been for some time), but it was probably better than publically being at half-mast.

A mild terror teased at his mind, Dean contemplating the swelling in his undergarments.

“Hey…” Dean paused, “Cas. I wasn’t sleep talking was I?” Castiel coughed and nonchalantly rubbed his eyes.

“N-no. I don’t believe so.” Castiel violently shook his head.

_(Thank fucking Christ.)_

 Dean noticed that Castiel was still somewhat flushed in the cheeks; perhaps he still had some of last night in his veins. He’d expected Cas to be a hungover mess, but unless he had become blushing bride it looked like his body was still chugging away at the tequila.

_(Impressive,)_ Dean pondered to himself, _(even pumped with booze, his body can go with shit-all sleep. I’ll have to keep that one in mind. Heh heh. Wait. What the fuck—DUDE, STOP!)_

“Um, so you are certain I didn’t wake you?” Castiel had finally thought it safe to break his stone hard gaze, and was now unthinkingly focussing on picking at his fingers.

“Nah course not,” Dean laughed, forcing whatever games his drunk mind had been playing on him to the back of his mind. He had been drunk, right? Drunk. It was nothing. “Anyway, breakfast?”

Dean looked over to the kitchen; from the couch he could already tell that the fridge and the pantry were likely bare of anything but more alcohol and old milk. “… at the café? I’m buying.” He added.

Castiel gathered his things (and the textbook) and the two exchanged numbers, in case he’d accidentally left anything behind.

. . .

During car ride they didn’t say much. That was fine, Cas was probably tired. To ward off any more thoughts about last night which Dean didn’t have the energy to deal with, he stuck a cassette in the player.

Dust in the Wind - Kansas

Despite his minor headache, Dean couldn’t help but sing along under his breath.

He did have to smile slightly when he noticed a minor humming from his right. He hadn’t picked Cas for a Kansas fan. Then again, everyone knew Dust in the Wind, it was nothing. Nevertheless Dean looked over.

Cas had balled himself up on the seat, arms looping over his knees. Dean had never really examined Castiel’s physique before—well, not fully. But now, shrinking away into the refurbished upholstery Dean couldn’t help but notice. Castiel was surprisingly well built for such a slender man: Somewhat shorter than Dean, hardly a beast of physical labour, but definitely not as gangly as his standing posture made him look.

With the right collar of his shirt flitting in the wind, Dean could see the hollow of Cas’ collar bone, radically emphasised by his seated position. It would be weird, but he kinda wanted to reach out and stick his finger in the groove. He wanted to run his finger against that collar bone. _Not for any gay reason. Just to feel it_. It was nothing.

Dean appreciated how even as a hung-over mess, Cas still smelt good. No longer sweet vanilla, now vaguely of a more earthy cinnamon. Dean’s mind traced back to an early Sunday breakfast in a world past. His mom tending to a snotty Sam with one hand and pouring coffee with the other. His dad eyeing up another serving of pancakes. Cinnamon was a homely smell. Cinnamon was a spice one might throw into cheap bitter coffee to make an otherwise unappealing brew pleasant. Cinnamon was small, delicate but brought a not-so-subtle warmth. Dean, almost forgetting the source of the aroma decided he could bask in the scent all day.

_It’s nothing though. Just a nice smell._

As they approached the parking lot near the café, Dean turned to Cas. “You prob—“. His sentence fell away. Somewhere between the junk his body was still processing and the whir of the Impala, Castiel’s head had nestled itself against his seat belt. His eyelids woven shut. _He probably needed the rest_.

Looking over at the sleeping Cas, Dean decided to hook around the block and for the next hour and a half drove aimlessly around, a little smile crinkling the corner of his eyes.

It was nothing, he was just gonna let the little guy sleep a bit longer. He’d earned it.

It was nothing.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was kinda rushed because I really wanted to get something online...
> 
> Also, let’s just go ahead and pretend I didn't just not upload for a month. Ooops. Exams kinda happened and I learnt the wonderful lesson of what happens when you miss a fucktonne’o’lectures during a semester.
> 
> (I still have 1 more exam *cough* art history *cough* but I have ages [2 days] for that and it isn’t overly important/not really important for med entry at all… as long as I pass)
> 
> I know this one isn't great, but I figured… better to break up a long chapter and get something up if I’m to regain momentum and officially have written 10 chapters of something before the end of the year.
> 
> Oh, and I may have planned to make my terrible idea Pomegranate!Cas fic a 3 chapter dealeo when I’ve finished with this turd-pile here. (tehehe I know it’ll be crap but thinking about it just makes me laugh so much that I realised I had to make it a thing)
> 
> Side note: Can we possibly talk about Charlie’s going off to Oz (and us probably never getting to see her again) because I’m 85% sure I’m not the only one who needs someone to discuss this with. *runs off to sob in the corner*


	6. The Gravelly Lullaby

Dean was at the Roadhouse. Deep breaths. It was empty. Sneaking up behind Castiel. Less than an inch away from the skin. Drinking in the scent of Vanilla. Cinnamon. Perspiration which rolled off his bare back. The flicker of the fire causing shadows to dance in the groove between his shoulders and down onto his white briefs.

Dean drew closer, stooping, not daring let his breath fall past his pink lips, now burning from the proximity to Cas’ body.  Feral. Stalking. He announced his presence with two hands creeping round to Castiel’s front. A moist tongue beginning its way up his spine. He tasted Castiel’s nervousness, his excitement. The thrill of what could happen in the empty bar—what _would_ happen. Dean’s right hand teased circles over the small line of hair under Castiel’s belly button and began to trail slowly under the white elasticated band.

One hand slid down, cradling. Cupping. Encircling. The other lightly gripping a slender hipbone. Dean pulled himself closer, his grey boxers already rising. Settling himself between Castiel’s round buttocks. Dean buried his head in Castiel’s neck and slowly began to grind himself further, closer, deeper into the smell and taste of Castiel. To Dean’s surprise Castiel’s head tilted back and he let out a quivering moan, slowly beginning to rock back against Dean. The pressure, the friction, it was an ecstasy Castiel was obviously not acquainted with.

The two moved together in unison, growing faster, faster and more rapid, more frantic. Separated only by two taught layers of fabric. Dean’s breath growing shallow. Fast. Urgent. Castiel rasping. Begging. Dean felt a spike of heat run down his back and press against the base of his spine. Every muscle tensed. Every abdominal screaming for just another moment of this euphoric frenzy. Just as Dean thought he could hold on no longer, Castiel turned to face him. A grin, shy but mischievous. They locked eyes as Castiel slowly fell to his knees, an unholy inferno burning in his stare. Cas’ eyes turned down to the growing bulge in front of him, his gaze shot up. Permission. Dean responded by running nails over Cas’ scalp, clutching a fistful of hair.

Cas rushed to action, frenzy causing over-eager hands to claw and fumble at Dean’s waist band. As he pulled the grey boxers down Dean readied himself. Castiel’s grin was no longer uncertain, no longer afraid, now dark, impish, and insatiable. Staring at Dean’s face, Castiel drew closer. His jaw dropping in agonisingly slow motion, eyes blinking in slow dynamic sweeps. Blue on the purest white. Those naughty baby blues. Swirling oceans of blu—BLACK. Suddenly black. Castiel’s eyes hellish, wicked. His sly grin peeling back to reveal rows of angular of spiked teeth. Laughter. The room was full, laughing patrons: students, bar tenders, Sam, Charlie. All black eyed howling with laughter. Louder. Piecing. Screaming. Dean’s ears about to burst. He tried to yell, but no words came out.

Rows of jagged teeth came slicing down.

. . .

Dean awoke gasping for air, his sheets rather damp from sweat, his underwear slightly sticky from shame.

He had been planning on hanging out with Cas this week. That probably wasn’t a good idea.

_Fuck._

 ~ ~ ~

Castiel ran the dried out pink eraser of his pencil down the window, tracing the rivulets of rain as they fell into cracks of the wooden pane. The pattering against the glass had grown to more of a dull roar and showed no sign of stopping. He didn’t mind, Castiel had always liked the rain growing up, as most indoor children do.

It was dark, around 8pm, and the street outside Castiel and Meg’s apartment window currently resided under falling skies. Apart from the streams of water which caught the light from the kitchen, little could be seen against the morass of grey shadows and pooling reflections on the sidewalk.

Castiel peered into the diner across the street. A square building on the corner of Phillies and Hawks Street. The harsh unforgivingly light from the luminescents poured out onto tarmac through the windows which ran most of the perimeter. It stood a lone illuminated beacon against the dreary deluge. Castiel had eaten there a few times, but Meg refused to step foot in the place; she though it far too gloomy.

Castiel could only spot four individuals inside the diner. Three patrons and a server who was all in uniform-white with a soda jerk hat some sixty years outdated. He wiped a glass on his shirt and sat it on the counter, contemplating the rain. Castiel didn’t suppose he was fond of his job; he was fiddling with a button on his sleeve cuff and trying not to make eye contact with any of the customers. Perhaps the anonymous patrons would leave and he could close up early, go home to his cat and leaky ceiling.

Nothing really moved in the diner. No one looked at anyone. No one said anything.  The scene stood like a painting, uncomfortably still against the torrents drilling into the pavement outside.

A man in a narrow brimmed trilby and navy suit gazed off at the wall opposite. Castiel fancied that the man had failed an account at work or perhaps lost a client. One rarely ordered scotch at a diner. Meanwhile his partner stared intently at her sandwich. She looked to be the kind of women for whom this was a meal worth dressing up for, though her pink blouse and perky lipstick did little to distract from the bags under her eyes.

The last man was sitting motionlessly by himself on one of the seats closest to the corner. He began to cry quietly into his coffee. No one moved. No one looked up. No one said anything. 

 _Meg was right._ _It was far too gloomy._

. . .

“Oh, my little artistic unicorn is pondering the world. Should I get a camera and take some black and white photos or will you will survive without them?”

“Hey Meg.” Castiel’s eyes darted to the bag of Doritos she’d thrown on the table, and then to his roommate as she entered the kitchen with groceries.

Meg was currently bending forward, shelving brightly coloured cardboard boxes with printed animal figures. Her chaotic brown curls framed her fair chest which, as she leaned down, was exposing an unexpected amount of cleavage. She caught Castiel’s gaze. A naughty grin. Feisty bedroom eyes. An explosion of giggles. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, _Meg was ridiculous_.

“I’ll be there to broodingly stare off into the distance and grope the window just as soon as I’ve put these away, cool?” Castiel let out an exasperated grunt.

Apparently the noncommittal response was enough to stir further conversation.

“So Sassy Cassie, what’re we writing here? More love notes you intend on transferring to your forehead? Because if you wanna cut out the middle man you could just let me draw on your face. I could give you sexy little devil horns and goatee to show…” Meg trailed off, eyeing Castiel up and down. “… He still hasn’t texted has he?”

“No.” Castiel’s breath fogged up the window as he deflated. Of course he wasn’t going to call back. _Why would he?_

Castiel looked down at the small kitchen table and the textbook he had open to the section about Edward Hopper. If he looked engaged in the work maybe Meg would go about her business and he wouldn’t have to deal with the inquisition he feared might follow.

Meg turned the seat opposite Castiel around and sat on it backwards, draping herself over the table and his work. She looked up at him with giant chocolate kitten eyes. “You gonna be alright buuuuuddy? You’re too good for that Devin anyway.”

“Dean,” Castiel corrected.

“Errh, irrelevant. If he doesn’t realise what a catch you are he’s stupid and not worth your time.” Castiel let out an unconvinced humph. “Forget him. You sure you don’t wanna come into town with Lil and me?” Meg stood to leave.

 “Thanks but I’ll be fine. I have an essay due next week. Anyway, I wouldn’t wanna steal all the boys away from you and Lilith… lest I invoke her wrath.” Castiel forced a weak but sufficient smile.

“Attaboy, Clarence.” She kissed Castiel square on the forehead and sauntered into her room. She returned with a black leather jacket on and headed towards the door.

“You are aware that your film references only work If I’ve…” The door clicked shut. “…seen the film,” Castiel mumbled to himself.

With a sigh he returned to the essay.

. . .

Castiel had planned to write on Hopper’s Automat: either the impact of compositional planes of space on themes of Emersonian loneliness or pseudo-existentialist implications of the— _Urgh. Too many words_. Right now Castiel’s mind had no intention of forming complex arguments; he’d deal with them later.

Castiel turned the page to the painting and contemplated the woman, eying her personage. She didn’t look back, not out of shyness or disinterest. She was simply ignorant of Castiel’s staring. The woman, eyes set on her coffee, existed alone in a bubble which extended out only as far as she did. Maybe there were others in the room, but their bubbles did not coincide.

She seemed okay with her loneliness. No longer needing to appear to be waiting for a friend, no longer hiding in the guise of a seclusion only temporary. The woman knew she was sitting alone in the Automat to pass the time. That was simply that.

What must that feel like? So beyond alone, so internally isolated? Years of waiting for a connection, a relationship, a person to look into her eyes and see a soul worth pursuing. Years of praying someone might find themselves thinking about her at 8pm, puzzling her out, working out what made her tick.

Perhaps she missed home, an early innocence, her big oak tree and swing set. Perhaps she hoped to one day see the Eiffel tower, being whisked around town on some foreign lover’s moped, hair knotting in the wind. Perhaps she dreamed of retiring by the sea, salt in the air and window gardens of mint and thyme.

While gazing into the blackness of her cup, she knew no one cared to ponder ‘perhaps’. She knew this. She was okay with this. She had come to terms with this.

Castiel hadn’t.

                                                             

 _Fuck it_. He’d just do Nighthawks like the rest of the class.

On the list of hard truths Castiel was equipped to deal with, the Automat did not feature. Anyway, there were more important, less mindlessly existential issues to come to terms with:

Dean was straight. He was not interested. He just wanted to go drinking with his friend and needed to return a book to some kid who’d come into his café. This state that Castiel had found himself in: doing everything in his power to not think about the star flecked green of the man’s eyes, or constellation of freckles mapping his face, or how he shook when he laughed and how his nose and eyes crinkled…

This state in which Castiel had found himself was entirely his own fault. It was just an unrequited physical attraction. Nothing more.

A sudden burning in Castiel’s right leg. No, a buzzing. His phone vibrating. A call.

Castiel languidly hauled his phone out of his pocket onto the table and read the caller ID.

Incoming call from Dean Winches— _what, Dean!_

“Hello Dean.” Castiel’s voice was gruff, uncertain.

“Ca-CAAS. HEEY CAS! Sharlie ishn’t-isn’t here!”

“I see…” Castiel was no less uncertain as to why he was receiving the call.

“She ishn’t here and I, and I br-broke a glass. By on accident. I god some of’t in m’hand. Cas you’re smart.  Ammi meant to take’t out or leave’t in? I can’t… I don’t. Do I leave’t in?”

“Dean whe—“ (“Coz I heard when som’one gets stabbed’d they’re s’sposed to—“) “Dean! Are you at home? Are you at home Dean?”

“Yeah, why’what? Why wouldn’t I be… bu—“

Castiel ran into his room and grabbed his emergency taxi money. The door slammed loudly as he left.

It continued to rain.

. . .

The door was unlocked but stuck slightly when Castiel burst through. A few chips of Burgundy burst off as the door swung open.

Dean was standing topless by the kitchen sink, trying to get blood out of a grey henley with water an vodka.

“Show me your hand. How bad is it?” Dean spun around on his heels, barely remaining balanced.

“Cas! Youb-you came?!” Dean instinctually threw his hands wide, offering a mighty bear hug which Castiel strained himself to deny.

“…Your hand.” he demanded.

Dean’s left hand was quiet a mess. Blood covered it almost entirely; streaks of red reaching halfway up his forearm. Thankfully the wound itself wasn’t too deep, only one shard remained in his hand and it was not nearly as fearsome as the bloodied, calloused spectacle seemed to suggest.

Castiel was had grown up anxious, shy, and not overly fond of dealing people … but crisis and injury, that, he could deal with perfectly.

“Ok, just leave that to soak and go sit on the couch I’ll ju— Don’t pick at it! Do you have a first aid kit?” Dean gestured to a box on the coffee table with drying red swipe marks on its latches.

“I-I tried t—“

“Shuush. It’s ok.” Castiel guided Dean to the couch, his slender hand on the man’s bare back and Dean’s left arm over his shoulder. He was trying everything in his power to not think about the warmth of Dean’s chest, or the strangely appealing smell of sweat and whiskey rolling off his skin, or the way he could feel muscles move as Dean struggled to remain upright.

Castiel laid the man on the couch. Dean proceeded to demand he could sit upright. He was almost completely gone. Cas looked around, eying the empty bottles: more beer than he’d ever seen in one place, half a bottle of tequila, one of whisky, and the Vodka by the bench. He’d finished off half tumbler of what looked like straight spirit, pinkened only slightly.

Finger sized ovals of red marred the lip of the plain but modern looking cup, inside and out. A few had dripped to combine into streaks which faded as they trickled into the clearer fluid; their dried outlines still lingered on the glass, like some tragic unintentional watercolour.

He’d evidently continued drinking even after he’d sliced open his hand.

_Oh Dean._

Kneeling down in front of Dean, Castiel took tweezers from the box and started pulling out what was left in Dean’s hand. Dean didn’t flinch, he just stared, his eyes flitting between Cas’ working nimble hands and his face. Castiel doubted Dean could feel much of anything right now, but noticing Dean’s eyes becoming increasingly glazed since he’d shown up, he was beginning to worry.

How much had he drunken since the phone call? Was he going to get much worse? _Was he going to need a stomach pump?!_

Castiel willed himself calm as he began bandaging Dean’s hand. Turning Dean’s hand over, Cas noticed the man’s knuckles, scratched and bruised. A small amount of blood ran down to fall onto Dean’s chest. Castiel thought nothing of the bruises.

Needing a more advantageous position to wrap the bandage fully around Dean’s hand and wrist, Castiel had unconsciously moved closer, kneeling on the ground between Dean’s legs, looking down at Dean’s hand. He managed to bandage Dean’s knuckles and the upper portion of his hand without any issues. Suddenly, Castiel’s work faltered as he noticed the position of his own head, no more than half a foot above the dark jeans which hung slightly lower on Dean’s hips than they would normally have. No sign of an elastic band peering out from underneath, Castiel couldn’t help but feel a part of him twitch which wished wouldn’t. _Fuck. No_. He needed to bandage Dean’s hand, and his mind running circuits around him was not helping.

Castiel grabbed a handful of wipes from the box.  Stretching upright, the front of Cas’ jeans unintentionally rubbed against the crotch of Dean’s. He caught a drip of blood running down Dean’s chest. Cas wiped up the red streak up to a pectoral, his hand slowing to a stop. Noticing his hand linger, Cas’ eyes nervously met Dean’s. Dean was staring. Deeply. Intensely.

~ ~ ~

Dean could feel Cas. The touch of Cas’ hand on his chest. Kneeling before him, between his legs. Dean couldn’t—he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand and he didn’t care; this was too much. He needed Cas. He needed his warmth, his touch, his vanilla and cinnamon. He needed every part of Castiel, his body, his eyes, his scent. His taste.

~ ~ ~

Castiel, his hand still nestled on Dean’s chest, returned the stare. _What was Dean thinking?!_ _Castiel James Novak you’re fucking everything thing up! Stop! Stop touching him! Stop looking at his eyes. PLEASE CAS, PLEASE I BEG TO YOU! STOP!_

Next thing Cas knew, Dean was launching himself at him. Dean’s mouth, clumsy and wet, tasted like fire. Cas couldn’t care less, he’d let himself burn. Dean’s lumbering hands twisted knots in Cas’ hair, while Cas’ fingertips sketched the contours of Dean’s front and grasped at the back of his neck. Urgent, confused twisting of tongues. The gap between their bodies growing smaller, squeezing hands and mingling whiskey with vanilla. Twin sweltering heats ignited, separated by layers of denim— _No_.

Dean was drunk. Dean didn’t know what he was doing. Dean didn’t actually want him. He wanted Dean, but Dean would never want him back. Dean was drunk.

Castiel, heart pounding, disobedient lips clinging to the man with all they could, pulled away.

Despite the glazed eyes and sheen of intoxication, Castiel saw a change in the man. The stars in his eyes clouded over. A crease on his bottom lip, from where he was biting it inside his mouth. A ripple of abdominal muscle tensing, holding himself in. Dean’s eyes dropped to his hand and remained there.

“Dean, I…” Castiel whispered, the words only a wisp.

“… Don’t.” The quiet breath catching on his teeth, “It’s ok. You don’t have to…” Dean’s voice trailed away, inaudible, as he shook his head.

The two sat like that. Castiel on his knees before Dean. Dean, head bowed, looking at his hand. His eye lashes drew gently over his eyes. His breathing slowed.

Nothing was said. There was no sound other than the force of the rain, and the buzz of a faltering light bulb overhead. Time fell away. Castiel, left with only the rise and fall of his chest and the near silent passing of air over Dean’s lips, could do nothing but stare. Dean, So close. So close he could smell the sweat and lingering vodka. So close the beating of his own heart didn’t entirely smother the slight tremble in Dean’s breath. Yet, he could not have been further away. Still. Empty. Castiel feared Dean would never move again. Forever living in some far corner of himself. What had Castiel just done.

After a time immeasurable, Dean’s head drifted up. His eyes were detached, clouded; further away than Castiel had seen them last. His face had grown pale, the skin around his eyelids pinker. Radicalised purple circles. Hollowed cheeks.

“Oh fug.” Dean stood, his limbs uncertain and fumbling. He ambled rapidly towards the bathroom, crashing into the table and breaking a standing lamp on the way.

Castiel entered to find Dean, head in the toilet. His body was convulsing. A barrage vomit on porcelain. Lingering in the doorway, a flash of light caught Castiel’s eye. A shard of glass. A reflection of the light fixture above. A splinter of shattered silver, which upon inspection had come from the wall mounted mirror to Castiel’s right. Much of it still remained stuck to the wall, remnants  exploding out from a bloodied centre. Cracks traced out intricate networks, crimson settling through some, white tile visible through others.

Castiel returned with a glass of water, brushed away small fragments of mirror, and settled himself next to the toilet. Next to Dean. Against the cold tiled wall, he could feel the sweat sticking his shirt to the maroon sweater he had kept clean of blood.

Putrescence gushed. The smell of a cheap truck stop bathroom. Sweat, vomit, hard spirits, and regret. The man let out a dull moan into the bowl.  Castiel lay his hand on Dean, running it up and down his back. The beads of cold sweat on his bare back traced into rivers under Cas’ soft hands. At first Dean shuddered at the touch, but after a while his moan quietened to a pained whine.

He was crashing fast, Castiel thought to himself –Another wave of bile— worsened by the latter cup of straight vodka no doubt.

Castiel, feeling the warmth of Dean beneath his hands, desperately clung to the reality of this situation.

 _This isn’t intimacy_. _He neither needs nor wants me, what he needs right now is a friend._

As Dean’s retching became drier and evidently more painful, he began to whimper between convulsions. Castiel unthinking used his spare arm to grab Dean’s hand in his own, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

“Shush, It’s gonna be ok.” Dean’s whimpering seemed to quieten.

After some time, Dean retracted his head from the bowl and his hand from Cas’. Letting out a pained moan, Dean cradled his head in his own hands. Though most of the toxin was out of his stomach, much of it was still running through his veins. Castiel knew that feeling; he could only shudder at how bad Dean must have been feeling it though.

Dean began to whimper again, this time less urgent, less like a wrecked man and more like a broken puppy. Castiel couldn’t help but run the hand on his back further around to the man’s arm in a half embrace. Yes, the contact had become increasingly familiar, but if it helped Dean, Castiel would allow himself this dark intimacy.

The whimpering grew louder. What was left of Dean rolled over into a ball, Clutching at Castiel’s shirt. He was half in Castiel’s lap, half lying on his own sick.

Castiel’s ran circles on Dean’s back and brushed a hand through his hair. Dean’s cold, damp body began to loosen. Castiel hushed the man in the only way he could think appropriate: gently humming a song by Kansas. It was quiet. Castiel was tired and the gravelly lullaby was broken by intermittent cracks in Castiel’s voice, but it worked.

Sprawled across Castiel’s front, hand bandaged but bloodied, the fallen hero drew silent. Clinging to his Cas as if it would save him from the morning to come, Dean drifted to sleep.

Castiel didn’t.

* * *

Hopper's Nighthawks: [link](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nighthawks_by_Edward_Hopper_1942.jpg)

Hopper's Automat: [link](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:HopperAutomat.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex is tired as fuck so he's gonna be brief. He will also hopefully stop referring to himself in the third person.
> 
> Late as fuck again. Sorry. I have no excuse I'm just lazy and bad at things ^_^
> 
> Yeah, it's not really properly "smut" but we're on the way to there, so I thought I'd up the rating. Such scandal. Much sex.
> 
> Same dealio... comment on how I can improve my writing style. Please and thaaaank you.
> 
> I would promise another chapter soon but... let's be honest, when have I ever come through on a promise about upload? Also med interview on Friday, hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahafuck.
> 
> Imma sleep now.


	7. Surely the 'Most Convenient'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In advance, I apologise for this chapter... It was a combination of tiredness, lack of motivation, and me experimenting with things.

Icarus the Magnificent.

The audience grows deadly still as the theatre darkens and a single spotlight falls on Castiel. None dare breathe. Adults, like wide-eyed children, afraid that their slightest utterance may shatter the figure on stage. Castiel. Black and white. Suit. Gloves. Hat. Crafted as if from crystal or blown glass. Standing in a pool of silver on the black wood stage, an act of defiance against the red-gold opulence of the opera house.

Looking out over a dimly lit crowd, little is seen but the reflection off eyes. Mesmerised. Silver flecks catching against the darkness.

He stands motionless, allowing fascination and tension to build. Tangible. Audible over the silence. _Who was this monochrome magician who commands attention and intrigue with nothing more than his entry?_ A thousand bright eyes of faces obscured by darkness. Peering. Measuring. Trying desperately to expose or reveal the man. Seeking a chink in the mystery. In the armour.

Castiel’s armour: black tailed suit; waistcoat; crisp, white shirt, wing collar unbound; fresh white cotton gloves, yet to touch anything except to pat smooth the fold in his trousers. His armour keeps him safe, protected. Distanced from the thousand eyes of unknown men and women.

The spell of stillness splinters and explodes as Castiel offers forth both his hands in ostentatious, sweeping gestures. Just gloves. Nothing more.

He reaches to pinch at the ring finger of his left hand. The audience steals a silent gasp of anticipation. In a fluid motion he pulls off the glove and flings it into the air.

The cotton twists and dances, catching in and out of the spotlight beam. Before a thousand eyes, the glove twirls, throwing light and shadows across its surface. A small girl in the third row swears that she sees a feather. As the glove begins to descend from its peak it falls, trailing longer. A smoother descent. Suddenly moving out from the spinning white, two wings.

A dove.

A young man with an auburn beard in the front row rubs his eyes. The glove has become a bird. Pure white, beautiful, and undeniably a dove. The bird’s descent, more graceful, more certain than the gloves paths had been. The stunned silence is broken by the flapping of wings.

The dove flies out, circling over the audience. A beautiful, nearly musical coo echoes though the theatre. A smaller spotlight follows the bird around the room, catching on its feathers, throwing silver around the room. Briefly trailing across red velvet upholstery. Catching monocles and jewelled necklaces.

For a moment, a small boy in the crowd is certain he can smell the beach. Hear the lapping of the tide on the dove’s wings.

As the bird returns to perch on Cas’ remaining glove the audience appears to wake from their dreamlike slumber, and explode into fierce bouts of applause. Cas bows his head, and outstretches his arm to display the dove. Wings splayed. Presenting. Bathing in the light and applause. As the small bird majestically raises its head, its face catches the light. Its eyes sparkle green and amber.

Once more it takes wing, spiralling upwards towards the heavens. Hand relinquished, Cas now takes a full bow. Applause. There is a slight catch in the uproar as the audience gasps and begins to cheer even louder.

Cas’ eyes shoot upward. His dove, hitting a stage light has caught on fire and is now falling, ignited.

The applause grows loud. Horrible. Filling the room. Tendrils of flame stretch from a single wing to encompass the entire bird. As the dove falls it leaves a trail of ash, smoke, and the occasional feather.

Almost entirely blackened, the bird strikes wood. Fire sweeps across the polished black stage. The applause grows, some whistling, some cheering. The smell of whiskey and ash claw at the air.

Cas’ dove tries to coo. Broken. Harsh.

Flames twisting up his legs, Cas looks upon his dove. Feathers and face blackened. Coo becoming a screech. Dove becoming a raven. Takes flight. Standing ovation.

Trailing smoke, the bird hooks over the audience back towards Cas. Faster. Directly towards him. Screeches grow louder. Accelerating like a bullet. A shrill ringing. Fire continues enveloping him, burning away his glove and armour.

The impact engulfs Cas in shadows.

. . .

Cas woke up in an awkward position, in pain. He was against a cold and dirty tile wall, next to a toilet. The room smelt no better than the dream. A sleeping Dean clutched at Cas’ left hand.

~ ~ ~

Dear Diary,

Today I woke up with a sore neck and vomit on my jeans. The day really didn’t improve that much from there.

Aside from an impressive hangover to rival only one of Meg’s, Dean was alive and functioning. We split a cab to go to his café for food, because I was pretty sure his stomach would need something in it after the ordeal last night. He didn’t eat much or say much.

He didn’t really look at me much either.

Honestly, I have no idea if he remembers anything about last night, or the kiss. I wanted to ask but I suppose if he doesn’t want to look at me, I can probably guess the answer.

In other news, it turns out the word minimum for my essay was actually a maximum. I am 3567 words over, but I swear I need every one of those words. I can’t wait for this semester to be fucking over.

 

Castiel

P.S. I don’t suspect I’ll be writing much more about Dean.

~ ~ ~

Charlie let out a slight giggle as she slammed the unholy concoction of tomato juice, banana, coffee, and bacon grease down onto the table. Significantly louder than necessary.

“I assumed you’d want your—whatever this is.” Charlie squinted into the green-brown foam which appeared to be some hellish spawn of rotting moss and infected flesh, all in a perky cardboard takeaway cup. “So I guess you guys had a fun night?” She chortled, eying the matching dark rings clutching at Dean’s eyes and cradling Cas’.

“Castiel just… he came over to help me with…” Dean trailed off, quietly groaning. He peered into the liquid abomination, losing his appetite for continued existence.

 _Odd_.

Though she’d never mentioned it, Dean had begun to reference the man quite frequently since their first meeting, but always ‘ _Cas’_. The dishevelled and exhausted student’s full name had become alien in their apartment.

Odd indeed. Still, Charlie knew better than to ask about their night and the bandages then and there, she’d pry the information out of Dean later.

Sauntering off, her red ringlets bounced to the side from a rush of humid 3pm air as the café door slammed shut behind a leaving patron.

~ ~ ~

Meg used her phone to check if any of her lunch was still stuck in her teeth. No, she was good.

“So, Sassy Cass—” Her sentence was cut short by a piercing and exasperated glare from behind a dusty textbook. _Urgh. Libraries_. If the artificial lighting, barely-covered smell of mildew, or extensive dark wood varnishing didn’t kill you, the shushing nerds or the _don’t-lean-back-on-the-chair-like-that_ librarians would.

“So, your highness,” Meg drew a harsh whisper, “what _did_ you and Derek get up to last night?”

“Dean.” Castiel corrected indignantly. “Nothing. We didn’t do anything. He just needed help with something and called me.” Castiel’s whisper sketched over the page with forced indifference.

“So what does that mean for you guys?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. He was drunk. He needed help. I was the most convenient person to call.”

“So you mean to tell me, of all the people he could have called, at least one of them _surely_ walking distance away, you were the ‘ _most convenient’_?” Castiel had no retort. He just sat in silence, hiding behind his book. “Just some food for thought my dear, little unicorn.”

With that Meg stood and strutted out, the unapologetic clack of her heels echoing throughout the library. She smirked at the frowning, geriatric librarian at the front desk on her way out.

~ ~ ~

“Unless it’s to grab me another glass of vino, don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re getting up off that couch.” Lilith checked her hair and readjusted her breasts in the reflection of the kitchen window in Meg’s apartment. Her battle-dress made her cleavage look phenomenal. Black. Sleek. Ruffles around a plunging neckline.

Finally confident that one loose, light blond curl had been whipped into obedience, she joined Meg’s roommate on the worn leather two-seater. Castiel tensed slightly from the proximity. Indifferent, she leaned closer, the strap of a black stiletto scratching against his canvas sneaker.

“So I hear you and Dean Winchester had an interesting night a few days ago. Spill your guts Castiel, what happened?” Though the medical student chortled at her own pun, she noticed that Castiel didn’t answer. _Strike one_. Lilith raised her left eyebrow a fraction and saw his resolve crumble. _Smart boy_.

“Nothing happened, also, how do you know his last name?”

“I know many things and I know many people. His housemate and employer, Charlie, we go way back. Now, while Meg picks a pair of club-friendly heels, you are going to tell me every detail of your _relationship_ with Mr Winchester.”

Whether she was latex-gloves-deep in a cadaver’s viscera or bleeding gossip out of someone for some furtive scheme, Lilith got what she wanted. Today proved to be no different.

~ ~ ~

 “… so get this, assuming I pass all of my finals, he said I definitely had a place in their undergrad program.” Sam Winchester was unconsciously grinning up to his ears. Dean could hear the smile in his voice and despite being on the phone in a dark, messy bedroom, miles away, he could see Sam scratching the back of his head and fiddling with his mess of scraggly brown hair. Sam had a habit of doing that when he felt like he was talking about himself too much.

“I’m proudda you Sammy. That’s awesome.” Dean’s tinny voice cracked. Sam’s brow furrowed slightly. The reception in this corridor was terrible. “An education from Stanford would set you up for life.”

Sam let out pleased huff.                                                              

“So yeah, how’re things over there? How’s Charlie and your new friend, that Cas guy?”

Sam was distracted as Jessica from his AP politics class walked past and smiled at him, her baggy, woollen, green sweater sat purposefully low at the front. Sam smiled back.

Returning to the phone call, he only caught the end of Dean’s response which had ended up as a mess of sentence fragments.

“—but no, yeah definitely, yeah things are, we’re fine, Charlie and I, we’re, the café’s doing well, and so you, that’s great about Stanford, everything’s, we’re good here.”

“Well that’s…” Sam thought it best to just go with it, “good to hear. From what you’ve said he sounds like a good guy.”

“He is.”

(An undeniably awkward period of silence)

“Well, I have to go study now. I’ll call you when I get history marks back. ”

“Cool. See ya soon, Sammy.”

“See ya.”

~ ~ ~

The setting sun threw long streaks of shadow over the kitchen table and a rough stack of note paper with 7067 words that Castiel had no intention of reading over again. Instead, he found himself in a cavernous pit of internal conflict: torn between wanting food, but having no desire to cook.

Forehead pressed against an overhanging cupboard, Castiel leaned towards the fridge, praying there would be something worthwhile inside. He really couldn’t keep ordering dinner; funds were beginning to wear thin and though he’d be sorted with rent for the rest of the year, Castiel sensed he was going to eventually need to start looking for a job in the foreseeable future. _Please have something inside for me._

Bread with soy and linseed – Meg’s

67% of a six pack of diet beer – Meg’s

A container of margarine – Possibly communal

The remains of a stick of salami – Meg’s

Half a bottle of orange juice which was rapidly approaching the best before date – His

Bingo! A jar of olives – Given to Meg who promptly grimaced at the thought and gave it Castiel.

Meg was out shopping with Anna and Castiel intended on making full and proper use of an apartment to himself. It took a remarkably small amount of time for him to find himself positioned, upside-down, legs swung over the back of the couch, with an old copy of the Aeneid in one hand and a jar of olives in the other.

The cushion next to him began to vibrate. _Once_. Probably a text from Meg. _Twice._ Maybe a string of texts? _Three times._ Nope, a call.

Castiel put the book down and rolled onto his side to look at the phone.

Dean Winchester

Castiel proceeded, while choking on an olive, to answer the phone.

 

~ ~ ~

Dear Diary,

I need to be brief, it’s only 5pm and I still need to have a shower and get ready. Meg and Lilith said they’d picked out something for me to wear, and Anna promised she’d do my hair and make me look good.

I can’t believe it, this was just so unexpected. I don’t know how to say this but I got a phone call today and now, tonight, I have a date. An actual proper actual date. A ‘date’ date.

Tonight I have a date with Dean Winchester.

 

Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahahaha It's not 4:30 am here at all. Of course not.
> 
> So yeah, I thought "Hey Alex, you're rather shitty at being concise and describing things in a minimal number of words" so I though I'd play around with this chapter.
> 
> Apart from the dream the idea was to write in little snippets each with under 200 words. I kinda failed miserably at sticking to 200 words, but... well... at least I got around to uploading something ^_^
> 
> I was thinking about not uploading this and just completely rewriting the whole thing, but I decided... eh... if I do improve from this whole fic thing, surely I need a catalogue of shitty chapters to look back on and go "oh look how much better I am now."
> 
> So, I'll be eagerly awaiting the COMPLETE LACK OF HELPFUL CRITIQUE OR SUGGESTION! lol i kid, you guys are lovely... but seriously... I have no idea what on earth I am doing. At all. I'm kinda shooting in the dark here. Please help.
> 
> But yes. I'm going to sleep now. urfghlhghle. Sorry for taking so long with the uploading. My interview went well. I'll find out if I get into medicine on the 20th. Also because <3 Medicine <3 I made Lilith a med student... I stand by that decision. Like, worst possible scenario... I don't get into med... and I kill off her character. That seems fair right?
> 
> Nodaringplz commented that they enjoy my notes... I wish I had something exciting to say here. I really don't. I'm super tired, the chapter is probs riddled with typos.
> 
> Sorry for not being more interesting.


	8. Just a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!Warning!!
> 
> This chapter gets kinda dark and fucked up for a bit.
> 
> If you find yourself easily triggered I'm gonna go ahead and suggest you don't read this chapter/skip until after the first dream sequence (after the second ~ ~ ~)
> 
> It gets dark, briefly noncon-esque, weirdly gore-ish, and then back to normal broadcasting... But yeah, if that's the kind of thing that won't end well for you, please skip the section or the chapter.

Trigger Warning!

\- For those people like me who don't read the notes and skip down to the non-indented section. WARNING!

~ ~ ~

The smell of September still hung in the air. There was long dry grass and tree bark. Though the gold of autumn had begun to drag intimate breathes of colour through Castiel’s otherwise green hometown, it was yet to reach the lone chestnut tree on Stockade Hill. The tree would soon succumb and proudly bare kisses of amber amongst its green; fruit had already started to fall. It was going to happen any time now.

The sun was setting over the high school’s football field a few miles away. Perhaps, if Castiel looked off towards the township he might see a box kite against the yellow-orange sky. He instead decided to sit cross legged on the picnic blanket and contemplate a different yellow.

Leaning against the old chestnut tree, Samandriel ran a hand through his dark blond hair. Confused. Irritated. Adorable. He’d been flipping through one of the text books Castiel had brought with him and evidently stumbled across something he’d need explained.

“Giovanni Bag—bag-lion-ee?” Samandriel, also cross legged stared intently at the book then looked up to meet Castiel’s gaze.

“Baglione.” He answered, Italian diphthongs rolling of his tongue effortlessly.

“Let’s pretend I was close shall we?” Samandriel snorted on an awkward but rumbling giggle. His rough fingers delicately traced over the surface of the page.

Only one year out of high school, the young mechanic apprentice still yearned to understand the world of art which had forever vexed and confused him. What Samandriel lacked in wit and knowledge he made up for in dedication and curiosity. His father had wanted him to go study divinity and theology and become a church preacher like himself. Samandriel had wanted none of that.

Eyeing the furrow which was deepening between those blond eyebrows, Castiel knew what was coming.

“Could you—Could you explain this one to me? I don’t… get it.”

“Sure.” Castiel giggled, leaning over the book, looking down, his nose only inches away from Samandriel’s. “It’s called _Sacred and Profane Love,_ Baglione was painting it in response to a work by the painter Caravaggio—he was that guy who did those ones I showed you with Jesus.”

“So who’s that there?” Samandriel, slightly overeager, was pointing at the small winged figure on the bottom right and accidently pushing a sharp corner of the book into Castiel’s ribs. Nevertheless, it made Castiel giggle slightly.

“That’s a young Cupid,” Castiel smiled.

“So he’s the good guy right? Why doesn’t he look like the good guy? He represents love! Why is he bad?” Samandriel was apparently growing concerned and confused. Castiel could see it in his eyes, trying so hard to understand the painting for him. Castiel blushed from how adorable it was.

“Hah, it’s not that simple. Though the Greek _Eros_ would symbolise love, the Roman _Cupid_ represents desire and affection.”

“But I remember you saying that they were same guy?”

“Not to the church.” Castiel got halfway through a chortle before a thought hit him. A rather sad thought which pulled his eyes from Samandriel’s gorgeously furrowed brows to the silver crucifix hanging from his neck two inches above the page. “What we see here is an angel intervening between a meeting of Cupid and Lucifer. That angel represents religiously sanctified love, while the cupid represents a perverse and unholy profanity to the church.”

“ _Oh_. I think I get it.” Samandriel withdrew his hand from the page. “I don’t think I like this painting as much as I thought I did.”

The book thudded closed and Samandriel handed it back to Castiel, he then proceeded to shell and roast fallen chestnuts with a pocketknife and zippo lighter.

. . .

Off in the distance, the football field’s white-painted, wooden bleachers swallowed what was leftof the sun. Castiel lay back on Samandriel, head resting on his chest.

“You know,” Samandriel squirmed underneath Castiel, “I don’t understand why the Cupid’s love was any less valid than the angel’s.”

“I suspect you’re overthinking it,” Castiel assured him, snuggling down and finding a comfortable spot again against the roots and between Samandriel’s legs.

 _But he wasn’t overthinking it_. He was thinking about it the exact right about.

“I suppose you’re right.” Samandriel slid out from underneath Castiel and moved until he was standing before him. “You’re right and I’m sorry.” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I know it hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

“Umm… What?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Castiel. You just don’t understand.”

“What’re you talking about?” Castiel whispered, backed up against the tree as Samandriel crouched down in front of him. His eyes were undecipherable. Manic.

“I’m so sorry Castiel. I hope you’ll forgive me. I got you a gift. Give me your hand.”

Castiel stretched out his hand which had begun to shake slightly. Samandriel grabbed at his pocket and, concealing it in his fist, placed something in Castiel’s hand. It was cold. Smooth. Metal. Entirely out of place in the rough warmth of Samandriel’s hands.

“You’re scaring me Sam, what’re you doing?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything.” Samandriel’s voice was soft and affectionate. Toying. His mouth rested is a small smile. “You’re the one who did this to me Castiel. It was you. I’m _not_ a fag. I’m a good kid.” Samandriel smiled and shrugged. The smile grew across his face and he opened his mouth. Blood. Blood pouring out over his teeth. Down his front and pooling on the ground. Two matching dark red streams falling from the inner corners of his eyes. Rushing down his face.

“SAMANDRIEL!”

He fell to his knees before Castiel, the flow of vile-smelling crimson only hastening, his eyes still locked on Castiel.

Castiel uncurled his fingers and looked down at his hand. A cold metal bullet, amber. It was then that Castiel noticed, twisted into a ball against the rough bark of the Chestnut tree, that he sat naked. Exposed. Cold against the now moonless night. Samandriel’s blood running down his hands and arms.

Castiel wanted to scream. Wanted to get up and run. Neither his voice nor legs could fathom movement. Castiel looked back in front of him.

Samandriel was gone. Just dry grass and tree roots.

Castiel. Confused. Disorientated. He balled up his long, scratched, naked body, hugging his knees. The wind was picking up and all the only light to be found from the stars weaved in and out from incoming clouds.

The wind, like probing hands, scratched nails over his shoulders and down his back. Lashing at the paled cream of his inner thighs. Twisting around his body. Relentless. Angry. Whistling. Throwing twigs and sharp seed pods from the tree like ammunition. Stinging his eyes and slamming his legs apart against a rough roots. Running down his chest, ravaging his body. No part left sacred.

An invisible hand grabbed his face. Forcing two fingers into his mouth. Another hand running, scratching a finger down the dark, narrow line of hair under his belly button. A third finger forced into his mouth. Down his throat. Gagging against the intrusion. The hand on his stomach approaching dangerously low, running the heel of palm over Castiel’s— Castiel writhed and twisted as another finger dragged itself down the small of his back and down the cleft of his buttocks. Talons stretched his legs further apart. The one resentful finger approached an opening, its malice and dark intent palpable.

Suddenly. Stillness.

A small drop of warmth on his right cheek. Protecting. Healing. A life giving drop from the heavens, running down his face, warding off the icy gusts. The hands twisting away to nothing. The wind dying down. As the warmth ran down his face, Castiel parted his lips, allowing himself to taste the sweet elixir.

Warm. Like salt and rust and stone and earth.

Blood. Horror threw Castiel’s shoulders back and his head up to the branches of the tree.

It was Dean. Dean’s body in the tree. All twisted and broken. Dark lashes ringing his throat and wrists. Two ravens began to pick at his face. One at the wound on his left wrist.

Another drop fell on Cas’ forehead. Then one on his knee, running down to his crotch. More and more, speeding up, the macabre rainstorm becoming a hurricane.

Thick. Warm. Rancid clumps catching on stubble. A globule running down the between his shoulder blades, containing something sharp. A tooth.  The fetid stench of old pork. Castiel felt something move on his chin. Something writhe. A small white maggot twisted and fell onto his stomach.

The raven which sat at Dean’s wrist started screeching. Loud. Piercing through Castiel’s skull. The two at his neck joined. A number of unseen screeches joined, dull but many.

 A shadow capered near Dean’s stomach. Again. Moving up and down his belly. Claw-like protrusions reaching out towards Castiel. The screeching grew louder. A squelching noise. A crack. Four more birds landed on the tree and joined in the uproar. Castiel clutched his head in his hands, begging the sound to stop. A hellish tearing noise. Another wound cut its way across Dean’s stomach. Eviscerating. Disembowelling. Countless black beaks peering out. A wave of decay stabbing at Castiel’s nostrils. A putrid wad of flesh fell onto Cas’ ankle. Entrails, cords of meat, like sausages, unravelling as they draped out of the opening, hooking closer to Cas.

Castiel opened his mouth to scream but no noise came out. Another fistful of flesh fell, barely missing his shoulder. Castiel tried harder to scream, a stream of thickened blood falling through his hair over an eye, blinding him. Clenching. Shouting. Forcing only silent scratches of air out. Twisting upwards, clawing at his throat. A clump of viscera fell into Cas’ open mouth. Caught. Stuck. Castiel wretched in horror and repulsion. Nothing. Forcing a shaking hand into his mouth he only drove the lump further back. Feeling the blood pour down his throat and burning into his lungs.

The beaks were twisting their way out. Further. More. Until with a repulsive ripping the wound widened and the ravens flew out with a spray of fresh blood.

His eyes burned. The screeching unbearable.

Dean’s body jolted closer slightly, twigs beginning to break under the weight. More birds twisting out of darkness perched on branches and started howling.

Demonic shrieking screams. The sound of snapping wood and one thousand beating wings. Rotting flesh catching in his throat. Suddenly open eyes. Bloodied. Reddened, but distinctly green and amber. The wood creaked. A final crack.

The body fell.

. . .

Awake. It took an alarming number of seconds for Castiel’s body to attempt to fill his empty lungs. Thrashing against the bed, sucking in air, his head banged against the wall. His pillow was nowhere to be seen.

He sat bolt upright, dizzying himself. Castiel tried to purge the images which still lingered from his mind. He had little success.

It was just a bad dream.

It had been a week since Castiel had seen Dean, drunken and bleeding, but by now he’d definitely be better. _And definitely not dead in a tree._ Everything would be fine. They’d hang out again, eventually. _Everything would be fine_.

~ ~ ~

“Don’t you agree Dean?”

“Sorry, what?” Dean had spaced out behind the milk steamer.

Lilth flicked a golden curl off her face and repeated herself. It was obviously for Dean but she directed it towards Charlie once more.

“I was just saying that I think it’s stupid when two friends think playing cat and mouse will lead to something more. You either do or you don’t, if you take too long opportunities disappear and then you’re left with nothing.” Dean swore he saw her slightly raise an eyebrow at him before she took a large sip from her soy latte.

“I don’t know, I figure some friends are cool with just being friends and then occasionally doing the nasty. Are you telling me there’s something wrong with that?” Charlie returned, measuring Lilith, trying to determine at whom she was digging. Lilith point-blank rejected the direction Charlie had steered the conversation.

“Ok, well you know Abby? She and Alastair have been friends for _ages_ , and it’s obvious they both want to fuck each other senseless. Too bad he’s too polite and she’s too stupid.” Dean was rather confused. He didn’t understand why, but Lilith’s gaze became icy and tactlessly directed at him. “If only he’d grow a pair and just ask her on a date, they could be done with the aloof formalities which both of them seem _so_ desperate to cling to.”

Charlie, noticing Lilith’s fixation, also turned to Dean. He simply gave a noncommittal shrug and wiped some stray foam off a nozzle.

Lilith let out a sharp and infuriated huff and then returned to her previous façade of light-spirited, chatty bliss.

“Oh by the way, my friend gave me this voucher to his restaurant. I’m not a fan of pasta so I thought you should have it Dean.”

Dean knew Lilith was the kind of person to whom one would rather not owe favours, and as he couldn’t for the life of him work out why she’d be offering such a kindness, found himself rejecting the gift.

“Haha, you thought you had any choice in this matter, cute. I’ve done you the liberty of booking you a table there tonight seeing as you can’t have any plans and Charlie and I are getting dinner over at La Cuillère Doux.”

“We are?”

“Oh, did I forget to mention that? Yes. We are. I’m paying. Oh well, I’m off. Have fun tonight Dean, I’m sure there’s someone you could invite.”

With that, Lilith strutted out leaving Dean confused, Charlie slack jawed, and one small black voucher sitting by the cashier.

“Oh… um, okay.”

~ ~ ~

Dean’s finger hovered over the call button on his phone. It’d be fine. He could do this. Dinner. Dinner was a thing people did. Friends do dinner. But then, Dean supposed, _Friieeends_ do dinner and then get to do things after. No shit fuck! Friends. _Just_ friends. A friend who just happened to ask another friend for a bite to eat at an Italian restaurant on 4 th Street. Friends.

“Uhh— _Hello_? Anyone there?”

Fuck! Dean’s finger had accidentally slipped while he was thinking and he’d already called Castiel.

“Oh, hey Cas.”

“Hello Dean.”

“I was just sitting here—at home… just hanging—just casual, you know haaaaangin’.” _What the fuck was he doing!? Conversation!_ Dean desperately needed a conversational topic. “So um—yeah, last week…”

“If I recall, you were slightest bit drunk. I bet you don’t even remember anything.” Cas laughed. Dean welcomed the excuse to not talk about… _that_.

 “Yeah, it’s all a bit of a vodka coloured haze. I hope I haven’t scared you off. I can use a smart bud like you.” _A SMART BUD!? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING DEAN! A smart bud._

“Hah, I don’t scare easy. Oh well, if my calculations are correct, I believe it’s back to being my turn to get black-out drunk this time?” Castiel’s confidence evidently faltered. “Or if you’re busy we could not, I just meant—“

“True we could do that, or I suppose, we could get dinner? Barker’s? At 7?”

There was a silence, the sound of someone chocking, and the crackling sound of the phone being dropped and picked up again.

“Uhh yeah, sure. See you there.”

“Cool, see ya.”

 _Click_.

Dean was left on a worn fabric couch with a grin on his face, picking at his fingers.

Dinner. Barker’s. At 7. _With Cas_.

* * *

Baglione's Sacred and Profane Love: [link](http://www.wga.hu/art/b/baglione/sacred2.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tired and have had a shitty two weeks.  
> Minimal end notes: To those people who like these notes... well, sucks to be you.
> 
> So yeah, I had an awful couple of weeks so I wrote a rather dark dream sequence... I figured that was better than having Dean and Cas have their date this chapter and me do something unspeakably horrible to them.
> 
> Also the promise of smuttier chapters every even chapter still stands, but 8's smut will be transferred to 9. In exchange for pretending I didn't fail... non dream sequence smut next chapter.
> 
> Also as I upload this it's the morning of the 31st here... so unless I manage two more chapters before the end of the day... my goal of 10 chapters by the end of 2013 isn't gonna happen.
> 
> Urgh also... I had someone ask why I even bother with writing the dream sequences... srtdytfugiohjguiyfutugyi because I'm bad at expressing abstract ideas, because dream's are important to my Castiel, because I needed a mechanism by which I could bash motifs which I thought I'd made tactless enough, because I have random whim's driven by books I've read or tv shows I've started watching that I wanna play with, because there are some connections which I refuse to explicitly state, and because I'm not a very good writer.  
> *angry huff*
> 
> Also I've realised it's chapter 8 and I have been avoiding proper Cas-Dean scenes because I was scared of writing them... remembering that this is meant to be a destiel fic... i'm going to go ahead and actual write the next chapter in which two characters of the pairing actual interact *facepalm*
> 
> Haha Sorry ^_^... kk well Imma proof read one more time and then upload.  
> Sorry it's shitty... kthanxbai

**Author's Note:**

> As with always, critiques and recommendations for improvements on my writing are invited (PLEASE). 
> 
> I desperately want to improve and not suck and I'd love feed back on what I can work on.


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